


Don't Call It Revenge

by Romiress



Series: More to Being a Father than Having a Kid [3]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Batman: Arkham (Video Games) Setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Issues, Gen, Major Character Injury, Major Drama, Mystery Plot, POV Bruce Wayne, Slade Wilson is a Good Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 58,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Sequel toWe Don't Raise Heroes, set a year and a half after the conclusion.Bruce likes what he has. With Jason having returned from the dead and Damian having joined their family, he's happy, even with his forced retirement from being Batman.So when Bruce's entire life starts being torn apart at the seams, Bruce finds himself in a desperate attempt to save the family he's spent so long building.---A Thriller-Mystery intended to tie together the first three parts of MTBAF.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who wants to hop in without reading parts one or two, here's a quick rundown of who everyone is and what they're all doing:
> 
> \- Bruce Wayne has retired as Batman. He serves in an Oracle-esque guidance position from the cave.  
> \- Bruce is/was infected by the Joker infection. While the infection has stopped, the change was not reverted. He still has the Joker's memories, and is bothered by what he knows.  
> \- Slade Wilson has effectively become a part of the family. He lives in the manor, and is a father to Jason. He's effectively an uncle (or even a father) to the rest of the family.  
> \- Slade has (mostly) retired from mercenary work, with jobs being fewer and farther between. He operates as the Gotham Knight, working as a member of the Batfamily in and around Gotham.  
> \- Jason Todd has changed his name to Jason Wilson-Wayne, and operates as the new Batman. Most people realize that there is a new Batman, even if Bruce's identity was never revealed. He's significantly more street level than Bruce ever was. He lives in the manor, and operates Wayne Outreach, a branch of Wayne Enterprises.  
> \- Damian Wayne operates as Shrike, Batman's sidekick. He lives in the manor, and has a dog named Titus. He's still adjusting to civilian life, and has the middle name Thomas.  
> \- Dick Grayson is now Grayson-Wayne, and operates out of Bludhaven as Nightwing. His first protege is Duke Thomas, who goes by Signal. He keeps _accidentally_ recruiting new people who show promise.  
> \- Tim Drake Wayne-Gordon still operates (rarely) as Robin, having largely retired to spend more time with his wife and child. He works as a teacher at Robinson Academy.  
> \- Barbara Gordon-Wayne still operates as Oracle, and helps keep an eye on the new Batgirl. She works as an administrator at Gotham University.  
> \- Stephanie Brown is the new Batgirl, having been trained by Tim and Barbara.  
> \- Michael Lane still operates as Azrael, but doesn't keep up regular patrols. Having been freed from the Order of St. Dumas's control, he's taken up a mostly normal civilian life, working as security for Wayne Outreach.
> 
> \- The League of Assassins is largely defunct. A splinter group, lead by Nyssa Raatko, Talia's sister, broke away and has left Gotham permanently. Both Ra's and Talia are dead, with Ra's buried on Wayne Manor grounds.  
> \- The Order of St. Dumas has been entirely wiped out.  
> \- Joker, Zsasz, and Killer Croc are all dead. Two-Face, Penguin, Harley, Calendar Man, and Scarecrow are all incarcerated. Poison Ivy is currently still 'at large', but ignored by police to maintain the peace. Catwoman, Black Mask, and the Riddler are still at large. Bane has retired to Santa Prisca, and has not been seen in Gotham in years.  
> \- Crime in Gotham has plummeted to record lows, leaving the majority of Gotham's vigilantes with very little to do.
> 
> This fic is set five years after the events of Arkham Knight would have happened. Dick is 32, Tim is 28, Jason is 26, and Damian is 13. Slade would be 60, and Bruce is 48.

For the second time in his life, Bruce Wayne wakes to the sound of someone hammering at his bedroom door.

It is not the soft knock of Alfred, waking him early because something has come up. It is a loud, desperate noise, and the door opens before he can even lift his head.

Alfred is there, and he looks upset. There’s a desperation in his eyes, and a note of panic in his voice.

“Master Bruce,” he says. “You must come immediately.”

It isn’t an alarm. No one’s breaking in. But it’s something else happening, something so bad that Alfred, usually unshakable, looks horrified.

Bruce’s mind goes to all the worst places. The last time he was woken from his sleep like this was years ago, when Jim showed up at his door with a tape in hand to tell him that Jason was dead.

Bruce thinks he’s going to vomit and he doesn’t even know what’s happening yet.

“Is everyone home?” Bruce says, grabbing his housecoat as he heads into the hall. He doesn’t even put it on, falling into step beside Alfred. Alfred hasn’t said  _where_  they’re going, but he imagines that it’s probably going to be the front entrance. Maybe the cave. They're both in the same direction anyway. “What time is it?”

“It’s five-thirty,” Alfred says. “Everyone should be home.”

 _Should be_ , not  _is_. Alfred’s been going to bed earlier and earlier, leaving Bruce or Barbara to handle things overnight. To keep an eye on patrols. It was Barbara’s night last night, and in any other situation he’d trust the fact that she didn’t call him to mean that everyone  _did_  get home.

“Master Gordon’s at the front door,” Alfred says as they reach the bottom of the stairs. “He has a warrant.”

A  _warrant_. James Gordon has come to the manor with a  _warrant_.

He’s always been a friend to them, and the fact that he’s there with a warrant means nothing good. The timing doesn’t feel good either. Jim should know their schedule well enough to place five-thirty as the point where the patrol’s all wrapped up and everyone’s back at home.

But when Bruce reaches the entranceway, things somehow manage to get even worse. It’s not just Jim. It’s Jim and Cash and  _three_  other officers, each of which Bruce recognizes. These are Jim’s elite. The people he trusts most. And they’re all standing in his entrance-way in full uniform, turning to look at him.

Bruce feels exposed. He’s got a housecoat and nothing else. He didn’t even think to grab slippers in his haste, and now he’s standing there barefoot as the best of Gotham’s police come to serve a warrant.

“Jim,” he says, trying to make his voice sound even and calm when he’s anything but. Trying to  _humanize_  himself before things go terribly wrong. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry about this Bruce,” Jim says, “I really am. But there’s no getting around it.”

He holds up the paper and Bruce reaches out, taking it in one hand.

It isn’t a search warrant. It’s an arrest warrant for Slade, and somehow that seems so much worse.

Bruce’s eyes flick down to the charge.

 _Murder_.

Bruce isn’t sure that all his years as batman are going to be enough to keep his cool, but he does his best.

“You can’t be serious, Jim,” he says, holding out the paper for Jim to take back. “Now?”

“Now,” Jim says. “I’ve done what I can to keep this from blowing up, Bruce. You know how this would look if we had to storm the damn place. I brought men who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut as a  _favor_  to you, so don’t make this hard.”

“Father?” Damian’s voice calls out, and Bruce sees Titus even before he sees his son, slinking along just ahead of his master. All the cops but Jim tense at the sight of the massive dog, but Titus sticks close by Damian as he rounds the corner.

Bruce sees Damian’s hand twitch, and knows he’s contemplating going for a knife.

“It’s alright,” Bruce says, even though it’s a lie.  _It’s alright_ just means  _you don’t need to hurt anyone_. He hopes it’s true.

“Don’t make this hard,” Jim says.

“Damian,” Bruce says. “Go wake up your brother.”

Damian darts away immediately, and Jim reaches up, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

“I’m begging you Bruce,” he says. “Don’t make me do this the hard way. If you help him escape, I’m going to have to come back with another warrant. We’ll tear this place apart, and there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to to keep your names out of it.”

“Jim,” Bruce says, but he can’t figure out what else to say. Jim looks  _tired_. He’s been talking about retirement. For god’s sake, they talked about it last  _week_  over  _dinner_  and now this?

He’s trying to do his job, Bruce realizes, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“What’s going on?” Jason demands to know the moment he reaches the entrance-way. Bruce is pretty sure he ran, and Damian’s hot on his heels.

“They have a warrant,” Bruce says.

Jason goes stiff. He’s sure Jason’s thinking the same thing Bruce was when Alfred said  _warrant_ : Can they manage to get to the cave lock-down without anyone noticing?

“Bruce,” Jim says. “Just let us go get him, we’ll leave, and no one has to get hurt.”

“Get  _who_?” Jason demands, but he already knows the answer. There’s only one person who isn’t there, and Jason’s face twists in rage almost immediately.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps. “There’s no way-”

“Jason,” Bruce says. “I saw the warrant.”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Jason says, equal parts angry and upset. “You can’t be serious. You can’t seriously be planning to let them take him.”

“Rude to talk about someone while they’re not here,” Slade says, striding out of the hallway like he owns the place.

Unlike everyone else--in various shades of undress--Slade’s managed some dignity. He’s wearing the  _Gotham Knights_  T-shirt that Jason thought was too funny to pass up, and he’s got actual  _pants_  on. He looks like he’s ready for his morning coffee.

 _Every_  cop, including Jim, go for their guns. Two actually pull.

“Woah!” Bruce yells, holding his hands up. “Let’s just calm down.”

He’s having a hard time believing it. Everything about the situation feels unreal, like it’s happening in a dream. And seeing Jim Gordon with his hand on his gun in his entrance way is only making things worse.

Bruce turns to Slade, trying to swallow down all his anxiety. To not let it show on his face. He’s sure it’s convincing enough to strangers, but Slade knows him too well to be fooled for a second.

“They have a warrant for your arrest,” Bruce says.

“I did what I could to keep Bruce and the boys out of it,” Jim says. “But if you run, that stops.”

It’s illegal on so many levels, and it says a lot that Jim’s stretched his neck that far. He’s never liked Slade, and he’s only barely tolerated his presence in Gotham as a personal favor to Bruce.

“Don’t see why I’d run,” Slade says, leaning against the frame as if there’s absolutely  _nothing_  wrong about the situation.

“You can’t seriously be planning to just let them take you?” Jason says, sounding outraged.

“Jason,” Slade says, voice harsh, and there’s an unspoken argument happening between them, communicated entirely in body language and glares.

Jason falters first.

“You can’t just-” Jason says, voice cracking. “You can’t just go.”

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice, does it?” Slade says. “I’ve done time before. I can do it again.”

“ _Father_ ,” Damian says behind him, and Bruce feels more than sees Damian sliding up to his side. Bruce doesn’t trust himself to touch him, to even rest a hand on his shoulder. The situation’s too wrong.

“Alright Wilson,” Jim says. “Hands behind your back-”

“Let’s not pretend,” Slade says. “You don’t have cuffs that could hold me.” Slade closes the distance between himself and Jim so fast that Bruce barely sees him move. Slade looms over Jim, and suddenly there’s four guns aimed right at him, and an absolute cacophony of shouted orders. Half of them want him to freeze. Half of them want his hands in the air. Jim’s the only one who doesn’t move, his jaw set.

If James Gordon was the kind of person to be intimidated by criminals, he’d have washed out of Gotham a long, long time ago.

“You’re the one who did this,” Jim says. “Hands behind your back.”

Slade ignores the other officers entirely, spinning in place, his hands crossing behind his back as Jim pulls out his cuffs.

Jason looks away.

Bruce doesn’t think he could make himself look away if he tried.

“Bruce,” Slade says, his eyes locking with Bruce’s own. “Take care of the boys.”

Bruce is going to scream. He’s only just holding it down. It’s building in his gut as Jim puts his hand on Slade’s shoulder. Slade can’t be held by that. Not by the thin little cuffs they’ve got him in. He could snap them without even trying. He’s held by something else: by the knowledge that if he  _doesn’t_  go, that everyone in Gotham’s going to know just where the mercenary Deathstroke’s been living for the last five years.

Bruce watches as the police leave. He watches Jim push Slade through the door. He watches them head down the path towards where the cruisers wait. He watches Slade vanish into the back of a cruiser, Jim pushing his head down to make sure he doesn’t hit it.

The moment the door closes, Bruce puts his fist through the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce paces the front hall, the phone pressed to his ear, but the news isn’t good. They’re waking the last of the partners at the law firm, even though it’s two-thirty on the west coast where he lives. There’s a reason Bruce keeps the firm on retainer, and it’s for times like these, where time matters.

Damian lingers nearby, his hand resting on the top of Titus’s head, scratching absentmindedly between his ears as he watches Bruce pace.

Jason’s gone, vanished back towards his room. His rage is obvious, and Bruce suspects that if anyone attempts to talk to them, they’re going to end up with a broken nose.

Alfred delivers Bruce coffee, which he drinks, and slippers, which he slides onto his feet as he continues to pace. He then refuses to leave until Bruce holds out his bruised and bloody hand for medical attention, the phone pinched between his face and his shoulder while he waits.

The lawyers, whoever, are clear: There’s nothing that can be done. They promise to look into things. To pull up the case. But at least right then, there’s nothing they can do. The warrant is real. It’s all in order. Whatever can be done has to be done through the right channels.

“There’s not going to be bail,” one says. “He’s too great a flight risk.”

Bruce tells them to get to work and hangs up without even a goodbye.

He has to call Dick. He has to call Tim.

“Father?” Damian says, and Bruce makes a small, strained noise as Damian approaches, hesitant.

Bruce doesn’t think Damian’s ever seen him as upset as he is right then, and he’s skittish and wary.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, trying to calm himself down to no success. “I just - I need to figure this out.”

“He’ll be alright, right?” Damian says, and Bruce realizes he’s looking to Bruce for confirmation. For a  _everything will be alright_.

Bruce doesn’t know if he can give it to him.

“I’m going to do everything I can,” Bruce says, “to make sure he is.”

Damian nods.

Bruce decides that Tim is the more pressing concern. Tim needs to hear it from him before Barbara wakes up and they find it through official channels.

The first time goes to Tim’s answering machine, but when Bruce calls back a second time, Tim answers. He  _sounds_  groggy.

“Bruce?” He says, obviously still in bed, and Bruce is pretty sure he hears Barbara in the background, demanding to know who the hell is calling before it’s even 6 AM. Tim’s probably just back from patrol. He’s probably tired, and now Bruce is going to have to ruin everything for him.

“I need you to listen,” Bruce says. “I still need to call Dick. Jim was just here. They arrested Slade, and they’re taking him down-”

“What?” Tim says, and Bruce can just imagine him. He’s sure he’s sitting bolt upright. In the background he can hear Barbara’s protests. “They arrested Slade?!”

“They had a warrant,” Bruce says. “I’ve already called the lawyers.”

“Jesus,” Tim says. “You can’t be serious.”

“Tim,” Bruce says. “I need to call Dick. I need you to call everyone on your end and let them know what’s happened.”

“I - Jesus - okay. I’ll - let me know what’s happening, alright?”

“I’ll keep you updated,” Bruce says.

Dick doesn’t answer at all, even when Bruce calls him for a third time. He might be at work, considering the hour, if he worked the night shift. Bruce hast to leave a message, asking Dick to call him immediately. He hasn’t even finished recording it when Alfred arrives, looking somehow even  _more_  distressed than he’s been all morning.

“Master Bruce,” he says. “You need to come see the news.”

Bruce does not want to see the news. He doesn’t want to hear about what’s happening. He doesn’t want to see Slade in handcuffs.

He walks himself into the living room anyway.

The news, however, is not about Slade. Not immediately, anyway. Instead, the news ticker across the bottom of the screen gives a completely different story.

_MAYOR OF GOTHAM SHOT AT CHARITY GALA_

“What?” Bruce says, very nearly stunned to silence. “How did we not hear about this?”

“Because it happened in Metropolis, sir,” Alfred says. “Late last night. From what I understand the murder was not discovered immediately, and when it was discovered, the news was suppressed. It’s only just begun to reach the news.”

Mayor Hady was not a good man. Bruce knows that Jason’s spent the last six months trying to prove his connection to Black Mask and his men. But finding out that he’s  _dead_  still feels like a kick in the teeth.

“Who...?” He asks, but he realizes he already knows the answer before he can even finish the question.

“Deathstroke, I’m afraid,” Alfred says. “A security camera caught him taking the shot and then leaving. They were unable to apprehend the shooter at the time.”

Deathstroke. Not Slade himself, but  _Deathstroke_. There’s a chance there, a slim and narrow chance, and Bruce knows he has to go for it.

“Unfortunately,” Alfred says, “none of us will be able to provide an alibi for Mister Wilson. The fact that he was out of town for this event strikes me as deeply suspicious.”

Bruce can’t decide if Alfred thinks Slade did it and means he was using his trip out of town to cover it up, or if he thinks that whoever  _did_ do it knew about Slade’s trip.

The latter is a very short list of people.

“I need to talk to Jason,” Bruce says. “He-”

“Is still in his room,” Alfred says. “And quite upset.”

 _Quite upset_  is an understatement, and they both well aware of it.

Bruce glances down to where Damian lingers, Titus at his side. He’s been silent, and Bruce knows him well enough to know that  _silent_  means  _upset_. Some people get angry. Some people yell. Damian goes silent as the grave.

“Damian,” Bruce says. “Why don’t you help Alfred? I know he’s probably going to need a lot of help.”

Damian doesn’t reply, but he does nod.

“...We’ll figure this out,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t feel sure at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce doesn’t get an answer when he knocks at Jason’s door. He knocks a second time, suddenly paranoid that Jason’s gone out the window, but reminds himself that the manor’s security would have picked it up.

He opens the door tentatively, and is only half relieved when he spots Jason’s back in the bed, staring at the wall.

The wall is a mess. Bruce doesn’t have the high ground, but he only left  _one_  hole in the wall. The wall beside Jason’s bed looks like it’s gone a round with one of Gotham’s old villains. There’s holes torn out, chunks all over the place, and blood on the wall  _and_  the floor.

Bruce closes the door and goes to get a first aid kit.

When he returns a few minutes later, Jason still hasn’t move, and he doesn’t move at all as Bruce loops around the bed, sitting down beside him. There’s blood on the sheets. Blood on his hands. The mess is obvious, and Bruce swears he can hear every doctor in Gotham screaming at the damage he’s done to his hands.

“Jason,” he says quietly, reaching out to take one of his hands.

Jason pulls his hand away, turning to hide his face in the pillow. When he speaks, his voice is muffled, but even through that Bruce can tell he’s been crying.

“How could you let them take him?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bruce says, reaching out to take Jason’s hand again. This time, Jason doesn’t pull away, silently tolerating it as Bruce removes bits of plaster and wood from his knuckles.

“There’s always a choice,” Jason says. “Always. We could have left. We could have run away.”

“Sure,” Bruce says. “And who do we leave behind? Do you think Alfred can keep up with us? Do you think we could take Titus along? What about Tim and Barbara? Do you think they could just bring the baby along? What about Dick and everyone up in Bludhaven? And-”

“I get it,” Jason says. Bruce expects anger, but doesn’t get it. Just misery. “He’s never coming back.”

“He’ll come back,” Bruce says. “We’ll find a way.”

“Jesus, Bruce,” Jason says, jerking his hand away again. “You don’t get it, do you? This is it. He’s gone. He’s not ever fucking coming back, because the moment they have him they’re going to throw the book at him. He’s going to-”

Jason can’t quite finish. He’s choking up, and Bruce feels helpless. He’s never been good at supporting Jason. He’s never been good at being physically  _there_ , because he always feels like he’s moving too fast or too slow and never quite finds the right  _rhythm._  Sometimes Jason wants that affection. Sometimes he doesn’t. And Bruce has  _never_  been good at giving it either.

It leads to awkward pauses, and Bruce knows enough to know that’s what’s happening right then.

“I need to look at your hands,” Bruce says. “You need to get antiseptic on them.” That’s not even talking about the wall. The damage is extensive, and Bruce suspects that Jason was only a few punches from breaking through to Slade’s closet.

Jason’s hands are still bleeding when he lets Bruce take another look at them. Jason’s taken a  _lot_ of damage over the years, but usually it was Alfred handling things. Bruce can handle on the fly repairs, but the more he tries to stem the bleeding, the more he suspects that it’s beyond his skill level.

“I called the lawyers,” Bruce says. “They’re already looking into things. This isn’t a general thing, at least. This is one murder that they think he’s responsible for. That makes things easier.”

Probably. Maybe.

“Whose?”

“Mayor Hady,” Bruce says. “Deathstroke killed him at a charity gala last night.”

“He didn’t,” Jason says immediately. “He wouldn’t.”

“Jason-” Bruce starts.

“He  _wouldn’t_ , Bruce!” Jason yells, gesturing with his hands. Blood’s getting everywhere. Little bits, splattering all over. The sheets are ruined. The carpet’s probably gone. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that to use. He’d never, ever do that, he’d-”

“Jason!” Bruce yells, reaching up to grab at Jason’s wrists before he can make things worse. “Jason, you’re  _hurting_  yourself. You need medical attention.”

“He wouldn’t-”

“I  _know_ , Jason,” Bruce says, and Jason goes silent, staring at him with wide eyes.

“I know,” Bruce says. “I know he wouldn’t. Slade wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t risk what we have for a bit of cash, even if Hady was corrupt.”

Bruce doesn’t say what else he’s thinking: That if Slade  _were_  going to kill Hady, he sure as hell wouldn’t be caught on camera  _committing the murder_.

“You... you don’t think he did it?” Jason says. He sounds so uncertain, so  _lost_ , and it breaks Bruce’s heart.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think he did it. But I’m going to find out who did. I’m going to get him back, alright?”

Bruce isn’t expecting the hug when it comes. Part of his brain keeps thinking  _Jason is bleeding all over and he needs medical attention_ , but the rest of it just winds up thinking  _this is nice_. It’s nice to have Jason there, even if the circumstances are so awful.

He returns the hug with a small squeeze, but doesn’t let himself linger.

“We need to get Alfred to look at your hands.”

Jason looks down at his own hands like he’s only just noticed he’s bleeding.

“Oh,” he says, and then nods.

Alfred is  _horrified_  when he sees the state of Jason’s hands. Even if he understands the  _why_ , that doesn’t stop him from lecturing Jason as he cleans them up.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” Alfred says. “If you were anyone else, I think you would have.”

Jason’s built of tougher things.

Bruce’s phone rings, and Alfred drops the first aid kit.

Bruce practically dives for it, snatching the phone up, but Dick’s already started talking before he’s even got the phone to his ear.

“-got five minutes on my break. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me he didn’t kill him.”

“We don’t think he did,” Bruce says. “We just have to prove it.”

“Did you call Tim?” Dick asks.

“Jim did the arrest,” Bruce says. “I called Tim first.”

Dick takes the phone away from his face, and Bruce is pretty sure he’s saying a  _lot_  of words he isn’t supposed to be saying at work.

“Gordon? Really? They sent  _Gordon_?”

“Gordon sent himself,” Bruce says. “To shield us as much as he could. I don’t think they’re saying where they picked Slade up.”

“I have - I have to go now,” Dick says. “I’ll call when I’m off shift.”

“We’ll be around,” Bruce says. “And we’ll keep you updated.”

They say their goodbyes, and Bruce hangs up, exhaling.

“Father,” Damian says quietly, and Bruce glances down. Damian’s been almost silent, and that never means good things. “Am I still going to class?”

He doesn’t need the class. Not really. Titus is perfectly well trained. But he  _likes_  going. He likes the people he meets there. And it’s a routine, one that helps bring a bit of order to Damian’s life.

“If you feel up to it,” Bruce says.

 But it’s just another stone in his gut. Alfred needs to stay at the house to look at the damage to the walls. Jason can’t drive with his hands. Slade would be the one to drop Damian off on any other day, but he’s not around.

“I’ll take you,” he adds.

Damian pauses for a moment, and then nods.

“I would... like that,” he finally says.

Bruce expects Damian to talk in the car, but he doesn’t. He stares out the window, Titus’s head in his lap as he watches the city go by.

“Damian,” Bruce says as they pull in. “I’m going to ask Mr. Richards to drop you off at home after class, if that’s alright with you.” He can see James and his son on the far side of the parking lot, and he’s offered a ride before.

“Are you going to see him?”

“I’m going to try.”

Damian stares at him for a moment, and then nods, his hand scratching between Titus’s ears.

“Make sure he knows we are all upset for him, Father,” Damian adds, and Bruce smiles to himself just a bit before getting out of the car.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce doesn’t go straight there. It’s eleven AM, and they’re probably still in the  _initial questioning_ phase of things. Gordon will be busy. And while Bruce has a lot of political capital, he doesn’t have enough political capital to walk into an interrogation in process in his suit.

What he  _can_  walk into is city hall.

Even if he donated primarily to Mayor Hady’s  _opponent_ , he’s still the largest political donator in Gotham. He rarely uses the political capitol that gives him, but in this case, he’s  _more_  than willing to do so.

“Mr. Wayne!” Says the secretary the moment she sees him. She seems confused, but when Bruce slides up and greets her with a concerned look she warms immediately.

“Angeline,” he says. “I just heard. Came down to see what I could do to help.”

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” she says. “They’re just in a meeting right now. I can let them know you’re here?”

“Thank you.”

She excuses herself, and he doesn’t wait more than five minutes when the conference room doors open, with almost every politician in Gotham spilling out.

For just a moment, Bruce feels out of place, and then it passes as the Vice Mayor of Gotham steps up to him.

“Neil,” he says. “I wish I was seeing you again in better circumstances.”

“I feel the same way, Bruce. They woke me up at five in the morning to tell me we were having an emergency meeting.”

They shake hands, and step off to the side, out of the way of the remaining council members, still streaming out of the conference room.

Neil Harrell is a good man, but Bruce has his doubts about him as Mayor. Gotham needs someone who has a vision for the future, and Neil, for all his politeness, has always bent too easily to pressure. He’s too willing to please.

Bruce plans use that to his advantage right then.

“Do they know what happened?” Bruce says. “I only heard what the news was saying.”

“He was at a gala over in Metropolis, representing the city. Made a little speech, headed back to his table, made small talk. At one point he went out onto the balcony, and then... never came back. When the party was wrapping up, his wife started to look for him. A reporter from Metropolis found him out on the balcony.”

Every little bit of information snaps into place, giving Bruce a better idea of the big picture. Of what he’s missing. But there’s still a lot of questions, and Neil seems happy to explain.

“Security tapes linked it back to a mercenary.  _Deathstroke the Terminator_ , if you’ve heard of him.”

“I have,” Bruce says. “I thought he’d retired.”

“Slowed down, apparently,” Neil says.”But not retired. We were lucky--Gotham PD bagged him this morning, only a few hours after the killing.”

The fact that he’s having this conversation with Bruce means that Jim’s kept to his word. There’s nothing linking the two of them, and Bruce nods, making a point to show that he’s thinking.

“Any motive?” He asks. “Do we think it’s related to his position, or...? Black Mask has been more active lately...”

“Possibly,” Neil says, “but I honestly can’t say for sure. Police haven’t reported anything to us since they said they got him.”

“I’m guessing they’re going to swear you in soon...?”

“Council just talked about it,” Neil says, holding a finger to his lips. “Can’t say anything publicly, but I’m sure you won’t repeat anything back.”

Bruce gives him a conspiratorial smile.

“After how much time and effort the last election took, they’re saying they want me to just finish up Hady’s term. Always had aspirations of being mayor, but this definitely isn’t the way I wanted to get it.”

Hady’s not even been in his position a full six months, and Bruce has a hard time imagining anyone involved in Gotham Politics wanting a new election so soon.

Really, he’s having a hard time figuring out the  _why_. There has to be another angle he’s not aware of. Hady’s only real enemy he’s aware of were the bats themselves, and none of  _them_ would pay Slade to kill him.

Is it possible he genuinely did it to try and help?

Bruce rejects the thought almost immediately. It holds up to surface level scrutiny, but it doesn’t hold up to actual  _thought_. Slade wouldn’t do that. It fits perfectly what someone who barely knew him might think he’d do, but it doesn’t fit the real him.

“You’ll be good for Gotham,” Bruce says after a bit. “I’ll talk to my people about having an afterparty for your swearing in. I doubt the city will want to foot the bill for another party so soon.”

Neil’s face lights up.

“You’re a good friend, Bruce. If you need anything, just let me know, alright?”

Bruce has what he needs, so he nods, promising to do just that. They make a bit more small-talk, and then Neil excuses himself. He has a full load of work to do, and he’s already been at work for five hours with no end in sight.

Bruce calls Jason on his way out, relaying what he’s learned.

“It’s the alibi, Bruce,” Jason says as Bruce pulls into traffic. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

“The alibi?”

“The fact that he can’t have one. If this happened any other night of the week, we’d have camera footage of him coming and going that would prove he didn’t do it. Instead, it happens on the one day where he wasn’t home and didn’t have anyone with him.”

Bruce doesn’t bring up the issues with them verifying Slade’s alibi by confirming he lives with them. At the very least that would have gotten Jim off their backs.

Just not anyone else.

“I agree,” he says. “The timing is suspicious. How many people know his plans?”

“Us,” Jason says. “No one else.”

“But Joseph’s date of death isn’t a secret.”

“He never visited before,” Jason points out. “He visited last year, but that was  _one time_. No one could establish a pattern based on one time.”

“They don’t need to establish a pattern,” Bruce says. “They just need to take a good guess. If they could confirm him leaving Gotham, then they’d know for sure.”

Jason grunts into the phone, and Bruce watches the traffic light, navigating largely from instinct.

“I don’t like it,” Jason says. “It’s too personal.”

“Someone knows him,” Bruce says. “And has a grudge.”

“His ex-wife?” Jason suggests.

“I honestly wasn’t aware she was still around,” Bruce admits.

“I met her once. Years ago. Seemed pretty hostile to me, and she seems like the kind of person who’d decide to ruin Slade’s life on... basically the anniversary of his son’s death.”

It’s a better lead than what they’ve got, but there’s a lot of holes.

“Look into it,” Bruce says. “But be careful. Think about what Slade would want you to do, not what you want to do.”

Jason grunts again, and Bruce pulls into the parking lot.

“I’m going to see Gordon. I’ll call you when I’m done,” he says, saying a quick goodbye before hanging up. He makes himself take a deep breath before he even gets out of the car, steeling his nerve for the mess he knows is coming.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce is dreading talking to Jim, but it has to happen sooner or later. They’ve been allies for too long, and friends for even longer, and every time Bruce thinks of him he just thinks of Jim snapping cuffs around Slade’s wrists.

He’s just talking to the receptionist when Cash spots him. Cash is, as far as Bruce can tell, one of literally only two people in the station who knows that Bruce used to be Batman. It wasn’t Bruce’s choice to tell him, but his connection to Michael meant that eventually it had to come out. His face pales when he sees Bruce, and he heads right on over.

“Bruce,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Coming to talk to Jim,” Bruce says. “I hear he had a hell of a morning. I thought he might want to come for lunch.”

He does his best to signal that he’s supposed to be there as a random concerned citizen and friend of Jim’s, but Cash doesn’t stop frowning. Eventually he does pull back, exhaling through his nose as he turns away.

“I’ll let him know. You’re going to want to wait here.”

Bruce stands patiently in the lobby, but he doesn’t have to wait long. It hasn’t even been a minute when the side door opens and Jim’s face pops out. They lock eyes, and Bruce heads right on over.

“Jim,” he says.

“Bruce,” Jim says, more terse than usual. “Social visit?”

“Thought you might want to get lunch,” he says. “If you’ve got time.”

Jim glances over his shoulder, obviously considering the workload he’s got, and then shrugs.

“Let me grab my coat.”

Cash frowns at Bruce as they wait for Jim to get back. Bruce suspects he knows too much now. He suspects that all Cash can think is  _is this going to blow back on Michael?_  He’s protective in a way that would be good in most cases, except for the fact that Michael’s a vigilante who spends his nights running around Gotham.

Even if he does say he’s semi-retired.

Jim pulls on his jacket, and the two head out.

“My car or yours?” Jim asks.

“Mine’s nicer,” Bruce says. It’s like old times. Casual. Like nothing at all has changed. That’s the facade that has to stay up, and it stays until they’ve both closed their car doors.

“I can’t believe you came out here after this morning,” Jim says. “I don’t know what you’re going to ask, and I already don’t like it.”

“We’re looking into it, Jim,” Bruce says. “I don’t think he did it.”

“You don’t think he did it because you’ve convinced yourself that Slade Wilson is a  _changed man_. You don’t know what he’s done.”

“I know a lot about what he’s done.”

“Bruce, he’s got a rap sheet a mile long, and that’s just the stuff we know about. He’s  _already_  got an outstanding sentence from when you first threw him in jail.”

Bruce pulls out of the parking lot, heading to their favorite lunch spot. Good food, and a good respect for the privacy of their patrons.

“I know Jim,” Bruce says. “I’m just trying to figure this out. He’s important to the boys.”

“ _The boys_ ,” Jim says mockingly. “You won’t even admit to yourself that you’ve been won over by him yourself. You’re not impartial, Bruce. We have footage.”

“You have footage of someone in a costume like his,” Bruce says. “It’s not  _his costume_. That’s still in the cave.”

“He has more than one, Bruce,” Jim says. “You had at least three back in the day.”

He did, and it’s a fair point.

“My point is,” Bruce says, “you don’t know it was him in the suit.”

“Jim, no matter what he did before, if he’s spent the last five years helping Gotham-”

“That doesn’t wipe away the things he’s done, Bruce,” Jim says. “Once upon a time I thought we’d have agreed on that.”

“Having a son who killed the people who tortured him helps you get an appreciation for  _gray morality_ ,” Bruce snaps, a bit too harshly.

He doubts it’s new information, but he also doubts that it’s ever been spelled out to Jim so clearly. When he spares a glance, Jim’s mouth is set in a thin line.

They pull into the parking lot and keep their silence all the way through being seated. Jim doesn’t say anything else until they’re at their usual booth.

“Bruce,” he says. “I want this to be over as much as you do. But you have to accept it’s not going to turn out the way you want. Even if you  _prove_  he didn’t do this, even if you  _prove_  it was someone else, that doesn’t change things. He’s still a criminal. He still has a sentence to serve out.”

The pause briefly as their food is delivered. They haven’t even ordered, but they’ve both been here so often that the waitress knows his order. She  _also_  knows that Bruce is a fabulously good tipper, and she leaves quickly to give them their privacy like they want.

Bruce can't think of anything to say. He doesn't know how to respond, and Jim leans forward.

“Bruce, do you even know the guy you’ve been copying up to? Because I do. I went through his file. The goddamn things as thick as my arm, and that’s  _not_  counting all the confidential military stuff that’s been redacted right out. Served in Vietnam. Dishonorable discharge. Bruce, do you know how many warrants there are for his arrest? When I first got his file it had  _twenty six_  for first degree murder, and  _fourteen_  for assassination of a public figure. In the fifteen years since then, that number’s doubled.”

Bruce feels sick. He’s known all this. Or most of it. He knew Slade was military, and at his age, he knew what that meant. But dishonorable discharge? 

That’s not even getting into his kill count. Bruce knows it has to be at least double what they know about. How many kills that they  _didn’t_  connect back to him?

“Bruce,” Jim says, and his voice is softer. It’s obvious he’s trying to be sympathetic. “I know he’s important to Jason. I know he’s important to  _all_  the boys. But he is who he is.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Jim shakes his head, looking away.

“Jesus, Bruce. Are you really asking me to do this?”

“I need to ask him a few questions.”

“I can’t, Bruce. Not without implicating you. It can’t happen. He won’t even be with us for long--he’s going to end up in Blackgate, and then he’ll be out of my hands entirely.”

“Then I’ll come back as the Bat.”

Jim shakes his head again.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “As Bruce. I’ll get you in there. Say it was a lawyer or something.”

Jim doesn’t bother warning him against trying anything. The stakes are too high for Bruce to consider it. He just has to find a solution.

Jim fidgets with his fork, letting out another sigh.

“Somehow I don’t think Jason’s going to want me at Sunday dinners anymore,” he says. He sounds resigned.

“Maybe when things are over,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t argue. Even if Jim’s just doing his job, Bruce is having a hard time looking past that.

He doubts Jason will be able to. He’s not even convinced  _Damian_  will be able to.

Bruce leaves his food half eaten. He can’t manage to muster up an appetite. Really, he’s impressed he managed to eat as much as he did.

“You’ll get through this,” Jim says. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’ll get through this. So will Jason. They all will.”

Bruce has a hard time believing it.


	6. Chapter 6

Jim is, for the most part, pretty by the books. His interaction with the bats is a rare exception, a necessary evil in his fight against Gotham’s criminal underbelly.

So the fact that he lets Bruce into holding, under his personal supervision, with cameras off and  _entirely_  off the books is notable. Bruce tries to think of that rather than the image, burned into his brain, of Jim pushing Slade into the back of a police cruiser.

“You goddamn idiot,” is the greeting he gets from Slade when Bruce steps into the room. “I literally  _put myself in jail_  to keep from getting you involved, and now you came to visit me in jail? Do you have no self preservation instinct?”

“If I had a half decent sense of self preservation, I wouldn’t have done what I did,” Bruce points out, stepping up to the bars.

In any other situation, he’s sure Jim would warn him about getting to close. But there’s no real concern of Slade taking him hostage, so Jim doesn’t even bother, averting his eyes with obvious frustration.

 “If you think I was going to let them cart you off to Blackgate without talking to you, you don’t know me at all,” Bruce says. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Slade reaches up, pinching at the bridge of his nose like he’s warding off a headache. Bruce isn’t sure he can  _get_  headaches. Does his regeneration help with that? He’s never thought to ask.

“Then ask,” Slade says. “And then get out of here before someone notices who you’re visiting and starts asking questions.”

“Did you do it?” Bruce says. He’s sure Jim’s already talked to him. He’s sure Slade knows what he’s accused of, the thing that got him put in jail. He fixes his eyes on Slade’s own, and just for a moment, the room is dead silent.

“No,” Slade says.

“Alright,” Bruce says, and Slade squints at him.

“...Just like that?”

“Slade, you’ve lived with me for years,” Bruce says. “If I wasn’t going to trust your word, I wouldn’t have let you move in.”

Slade mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘goddamn idiot’, but he doesn’t quite meet Bruce’s eyes.

“Did you tell anyone about your trip?” Bruce asks.

“Not anyone you don’t already know about,” Slade says.

“Did you stop for food anywhere? Any place that might be able to give an alibi?”

Slade shakes his head.

“Timed it so I’d get there not long after opening. Place was pretty empty, doubt anyone could ID me. Alfred packed food, so I ate on the road so I could do the whole trip in one shot.”

If Slade had gone for food, things would have been a lot easier. That would have at least gotten them through the  _new_  charges. But it wouldn't have gotten rid of the rest.

“How many sets of gear do you have?”

“Three,” he says. “The cave, my room, and I left one with an associate.”

To Bruce’s immense surprise, Slade gives him a phone number without protest. He’s expecting to have to fight for it, so just being  _given_  it is that much easier.

“How’s Jason?” Slade asks.

“How do you think?” Bruce says, and he has to fight to keep the frustration out of his voice. He has to fix it. He has to make it better. “He ruined his hands punching the wall.”

“Break anything?”

“No,” Bruce says. “Alfred checked.”

Slade  _hmmms_ , giving a pointed look to Bruce’s own bandaged hand.

Bruce scowls. Too much to ask for to hope he wouldn’t notice.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“It was you being an idiot,” Slade says.

“It was me venting my frustrations at a really messed up situation, Slade. Drop it.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“They haven’t said your name yet,” Bruce says.

“They won’t,” Slade says immediately. “Didn’t last time either. Deathstroke this, Deathstroke that. They’ll put my name on paperwork for the time being, but when push comes to shove they’ll take all that paperwork right back. US Government can’t risk publicizing my identity.”

Jim, despite his obvious attempt to give them privacy, can’t help but drift into the conversation.

“Is that why they’ve got a federal agent peeking at my paperwork pile?”

“That would be why,” Slade says. “If they publish everything, someone’s going to recognize me. People are going to start asking questions about how I got from point A to point B. That’s a big juicy expose waiting to happen.  _US government creates super soldier project, US government loses track of super soldier project, rogue US government super soldier becomes giant headache for everyone_.”

Bruce knew Slade was in the army. But he’d never asked about the  _how_. It had never seemed important, and it had always seemed like the kind of thing Slade might not want to talk about.

“That’s politics,” Jim says. “And before anyone asks, it’s out of my hands.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Bruce says. “You hate that sort of thing.”

“He’ll be in Blackgate for a while,” Jim says. “Don’t be surprise if they want to transfer him somewhere federally.”

Blackgate is bad, but it’s not as bad as somewhere out of Gotham. Or worse: Out of state. He has friends in Blackgate, allies. He can keep an eye on him there while he fixes the situation. If Slade gets transferred, he’ll be out of his hands.

“If I can prove he didn’t kill Hady,” Bruce says. “Is that going to help?”

He looks at Jim. He wants a real answer, an  _honest_  answer, and the sight of Jim shaking his head is like a stone in his throat.

“Honestly, Bruce? No, not really. Even if you totally clear him, he still was already sentenced once. It’ll slow things down, but proving he was framed isn’t going to make all the  _other_  charges go away.”

He tries very, very hard to think about the good sides. About the possibilities. About the ways out. But it’s hard, and it takes him a moment to recover himself.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Bruce says. “This is a tough situation, but we have the best of Gotham working on it.”

“They’re going to want another interview with him pretty soon, Bruce,” Jim says.

Bruce swallows at the lump in his throat. Tries to remind himself that they’ve been in difficult situations before. That they can get out of this.

“I need you to stay put,” Bruce says. “I know you can get out, but I need you to stay put. If you break out while I’m fixing things, I’m not going to be able to put things back the way they should be.”

“Bruce,” Slade says. “You’re not going to be able to anyway. I know you’re doing this whole  _power of positive thinking_  crap, but it’s not going to happen. I know it. You know it. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Just promise me you’ll stay put,” Bruce says. Slade might have already given up, but he’s not willing to. He’s not willing to go home and tell them that Slade won’t be coming back.

Slade sighs.

“Fine,” Slade says. “I’ll stay put. Because you asked nicely. But watch out for the boys, alright? Jason’s going to be... really self destructive right now, and he’s going to need you to keep him from doing something stupid. Don’t let Damian retreat into himself, either. Keep him engaged.”

“I know,” Bruce says. These are all things he knows, things he understands. Jason will lash out. Damian will withdraw. Those are the ways they deal with stress, and the stress has suddenly got so much worse.

“And take care of yourself, alright?” Slade says. “I’m going to be pissed if I get out and you’ve been forgetting to eat.”

Bruce makes a note, just for himself.

“Alright,” Jim says. “Can’t drag this out any longer.”

Bruce pulls away from the bars, swallowing hard as he nods to Jim.

Slade nods, and Bruce nods back, and only  _then_  does he allow himself to leave.

He has things to do. A lot of things, if he wants to figure out how to get Slade back.


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce calls Slade’s contact on the way home. He’s not entirely sure who they are, but the impression he gets is that the man’s some kind of broker. Someone who helps manage Slade’s jobs. He has no idea what he does or doesn’t know, so he’s careful to use a secure line, dropping his voice a bit to render it nearly unrecognizable.

He has an easier time functioning if he has a goal. If he keeps himself busy. If he stops, he’s not sure he’s going to be able to start himself up again, so it’s so much easier to never ever let himself stop.

“Denali,” comes the voice on the other line, and it takes Bruce a second to realize that it’s either the man’s name or some kind of code name. Which doesn't really matter--Bruce isn’t planning to hunt him down anyway.

“I’m calling on behalf of a mutual friend,” Bruce says. “Deathstroke.”

“And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Bruce weighs his options. There’s pros and cons to both. But if Slade trusts the man enough to leave a suit of armor with him, he probably has at least a  _very_  general idea what he’s been doing for the last few years.

“Batman.”

“Original, or new model?”

“Original.”

The man’s tone of voice seems to change very suddenly.

“Bruce, then,” he says, and Bruce winces. How much does this guy know? “I heard about Slade. I was wondering when you’d call.”

Bruce has absolutely no idea who the man is, and the entire conversation is already veering towards surreal.

“Sorry, and you are...?”

“An old friend of Slades’,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

It’s a total dodge of the question, but anyone who works in his line of work is probably used to that kind of dodging.

“He said you had his suit,” Bruce says. “Do you still?”

“The backup? I still have it.”

“You’re certain?”

There’s a pause, and then Denali clicks his tongue.

“Still have it,” he says. “It’s in my safe room, just in case he needs it.”

“You’re sure no one’s used it?”

The man actually laughs at that.

“I’m sure,” he says. “I’d know if someone had broken into my house.”

So that rules out all three of his suits. That means someone made a replica, a copy. Bruce doubts someone could have made a replica that would hold up to close scrutiny, but it doesn't need to. At a distance, through a security camera, only the broad strokes are necessary. They must have planned for that, made sure they’d get away without making contact.

“Bruce?” The man prompts, and Bruce snaps his focus back to the conversation.

“Yes?”

“There’s a message for you.”

“...What?”

For just a moment, he thinks it’s from Slade. That Slade left him a message with the man, just in case. But it makes no sense. Bruce can’t imagine a message from Slade that couldn’t have just been spoken in front of Jim, and there’s no way Bruce would have gotten Denali’s number without Slade’s help.

“Everyone in the business keeps up with one another,” he says. “One of my contacts passed the word they have a message for Batman if anyone has contact with him. I told them I might, and I’ve got a number for you to call.”

A message for Batman? 

“Alright,” he says. “I’m ready.”

He waits till he’s stopped at a stoplight and scribbles out the number Denali gives him.

But there’s no other message from Slade, no  _Slade told me to tell you_. Just polite small talk, a thank you for calling, and then Bruce gets hung up on.

He can’t let himself stop, so he calls the number Denali gave him.

“Tiyana,” says a woman’s voice. Another code name, probably. Another handle.

“I was told you have a message for me,” Bruce says in his very best batman growl.

To their credit, Tiyana doesn’t ask  _who is this_. She knows, apparently, even without asking.

“I do,” she says. “There’s a package for you in locker 374 at Gotham Central Station. The lock combination is your sons birthday.”

“...Month or day first?’

“Month, then day,” she says.

There’s absolutely no question which son they’re talking about. Bruce can only think of one person who’d pass a package like this, and that’s Nyssa. He doesn't know why she isn’t calling herself, but he knows better than to ask.

“Anything else?”

“No,” she says. “Good day.”

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Bruce gets hung up on.

He calls Michael.

“Bruce?” Michael asks. “I just heard from Timothy.”

That saves him from having to explain.

“Are you at work?” Bruce asks, and when Michael says  _no_ , Bruce just carries on. “I need you to head down to Gotham Central Station. There’s a package in locker 374. Locker combination should be 1015.”

“Should I expect it to explode?” Michael asks, entirely too sensibly.

“No,” Bruce says. “I’d just rather have a third party grab it rather than raising eyebrows.”

The lockers in Gotham Central Station are, for lack of a better term, scummy. There’s a lot of drug deals in there, and Bruce would draw too much attention in a suit.

“Got it,” Michael says. “I’ll go get it now.”

“Can you bring it by the manor?” Bruce says.

“I’ve got some things for Jason to sign,” he says. “I’ll use that as an excuse.”

Jason. Jason should have been at work, Bruce realizes. It’s the first, most obvious sign of things starting to fail already. People will notice he’s not at work. Jason’s too diligent for them to not.

“I told them he was sick,” Michael adds in the ensuing silence.

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “I’ll see you when you arrive.”

Bruce can already see the manor in the distance, but when he pulls in, parking the car, he can’t quite make himself get out. He feels like someone’s placed a weighted blanket over him, weighing him down. Dragging him down to the bottom. He doesn’t want to look at Jason. He doesn't want to look at Damian. He doesn’t want to look even at  _Alfred_. He can’t stand it, because he doesn’t have any answers. He’s been working on the issue all day and doesn’t feel like he’s made any actual  _progress_.

He has to keep believing he can fix the issue. He’s just not sure if he actually believes it.


	8. Chapter 8

Jason finds him not long after he’s arrived. He suspects it’s Alfred’s doing, because otherwise it’s a  _very_  large coincidence that Jason emerges from the cave before Bruce can even finish hanging up his jacket.

“Bruce,” Jason says. He’s a man on a mission, taking Bruce’s coat from him to hang it up himself. “I’ve got stuff up in the cave for you to look at.”

Bruce hopes Jason’s had more success then he has as he follows him down into the cave.

The computer’s on, and the screen shows a blown up photo of a woman. Short brown hair. Stoic look. She looks somewhere between his age and Slade’s own, which isn’t all that unusual. What  _is_  unusual is all the other files open on other screens, and Bruce’s eyes flick between them. Another photo, much younger.

“Military ID,” Jason says. “Her name’s Adeline Kane, although she was Adeline Wilson for a while. They met in the military. Had Joseph. Crappy marriage. Joseph died. Divorce.”

He flicks through file after file as he explains. Marriage records. Divorce records. Joseph’s death certificate. It’s grim stuff.

“What about after that?”

“Normal enough. From what I can get, she briefly worked for the military before effectively being shut out. She’s now a policy adviser for her local government. Never remarried.”

“And the last few days?”

“From what I dug up? Nothing unusual. Called in and asked discretely, but she’s been at work on time. No changes.”

It doesn’t rule her out, but it’s not a solid lead either. 

“But you’re not satisfied,” Bruce says.

“No,” Jason says. “She’s our best--our  _only_  lead. I need to follow up.”

Bruce doesn’t like the idea of Jason being alone. He doesn’t like the idea of him confronting Slade’s ex, either.

“You need to take someone with you,” Bruce says. “Right now, no one should be alone.”

He’s thinking Michael, or maybe even Tim.

“I’ll take Damian,” Jason says. “And Titus. Probably wouldn’t mind getting out of the house. I’ll make a trip of it, show him a bit more of the country.”

A vacation to get their minds off it sounds good in theory, but Bruce worries about them being alone. At the same time, Damian  _is_  a good check and balance against Jason’s anger. He’s not likely to do anything particularly stupid with Damian tagging along.

“Talk to Alfred about it,” Bruce finally says. “And keep me updated either way.”

He doesn’t have veto rights anymore. If he says  _no, it’s a bad idea_ , Jason’s likely to go anyway. And he’s not actually convinced it  _is_  a bad idea.

There’s downsides to Jason being away from his immediate support structure, but there’s also downsides to Jason being in the manor, surrounded by reminders of Slade. Getting him out of state might be the best way to make sure he doesn’t blow a hole in the side of GCPD headquarters to get Slade out.

“Have to talk to the kid, too,” Jason says. “Didn’t want to pitch it to him until I’d talked to you.”

Probably not a bad idea, and Bruce appreciates the sentiment.

“Michael’s on his way over,” Bruce says. “He has some paperwork for you, and I got him to pick up a message from Nyssa for me.”

“Nyssa?” Jason says, eyebrows going up. “Now?”

“Not sure how  _now_  it is. It might have been waiting a while. Got bounced through a few people when I found out there was a package waiting for me.”

Jason grunts.

“Guess we’ll see,” he says.

They’re halfway up the stairs back to the manor when Jason asks.

“Did you see him?”

Bruce falters, only just catching himself on the steps, stopping to glance over his shoulder.

“...Yes,” he says. “He said he didn’t do it.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Jason says. “I want to see him.”

Bruce knew it was coming, but he still winces.

“Not yet,” Bruce says. “When he’s in Blackgate, it’ll be easier to see him. Joseph would let Batman see him, no questions asked.”

“I want to see him as  _Jason_ ,” he protests, and Bruce sighs.

“I know,” Bruce says. “And it’s not fair you didn’t get to say goodbye. But we need to keep a low profile if we want things to get better. Even if it hurts.”

He rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder, and he feels it sag under his hand.

He pulls Jason into an awkward hug on the stairs, but doesn’t let it last too long.

“We’ll figure this out,” Bruce says. He’s lost track of how many times he’s said it. A part of him suspects he’s saying it more to himself than Jason.

Michael arrives not long later. He’s got a stack of papers under one arm, and a small package wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. He hands the package over to Bruce, and then Jason claims Bruce’s office for work and the two retire.

Bruce pulls the package open to find a number of smaller objects, wrapped in the heavy paper, and a letter. He cuts the letter open, and then stares at the contents.

It’s Arabic. It’s  _definitely_  Arabic. But the more he stares, the more confused he gets, because the Arabic doesn’t make any-

Bruce’s brain catches up.

“Damian?” Bruce calls, and there’s a bark from elsewhere in the house.

He finds Damian, Titus, and Alfred sitting at the table. Alfred’s made food, and when Bruce steps in, Alfred stands.

“I’ll go fetch dinner for you,” Alfred says. “Do you think Mister Lane will be staying?”

“Possibly,” Bruce says. “But you’d have to catch him before he leaves.”

Alfred nods, heading off to check with Jason and Michael as Bruce sits down, laying the package on the table.

“From Nyssa,” Bruce says. “She left a letter, but it’s coded.”

He’d still been learning to read Arabic when he lived with the League, and getting into the codes and ciphers was beyond him. He suspects it’s intentional. Even if the package was intercepted, Damian’s one of the only people who would be able to read it.

Damian takes the letter, eyes skimming down the page. When he doesn’t say anything, Bruce clears his throat.

“Can you read it?” He asks, even though he knows the answer’s yes.

“Oh,” Damian says. “Right.” He seems to have only just realized that Bruce is hoping he’ll read it  _aloud_.

“The letter has two parts,” he says. “The first part is standard. It’s dated from... five years ago. The purpose of the letter is that if she ever goes out of contact for too long, for example if she’s killed, then this package is to be delivered to a contact of her choosing. The contact isn’t named in the letter.”

Damian shuffles the first page to the side.

“The second page is... more recent. Three months old. Aunt Nyssa says that she’s heard concerning rumors about movement in Gotham. She apologizes for breaking her oath, but says she sent members of the league into Gotham to investigate, but lost contact with them. She says she plans to... to move in herself, and hopes to make contact with us when she has more information.”

They haven’t had any contact, which all but confirms Bruce’s suspicions. Nyssa’s likely dead, and the whole reason the letter’s reached them is because she’s been out of contact long enough to have it sent.

“Did she give any other information?” Bruce says. He hopes the answer is yes. He hopes she has some clue for them, something to get them started. Something is happening in Gotham, and the fact that it’s caught them so off guard is alarming. The  _only_  thing that raised any sort of alarm was Black Mask becoming more active.

Damian reads over the letter again, his lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line.

“It sounds like she was hoping to gain more information when she arrived,” Damian says. “But didn’t have anything concrete. From what she says...”

He’s silent, squinting down at the paper. He’s working through a language barrier  _and_  the fact that the method’s coded, and Bruce can’t risk rushing him.

“I think she thinks there was a threat to us,” Damian says. “Not to... to Bruce Wayne and Damian Wayne. But to Batman and Shrike. That someone was starting to move against them. That’s what made her come back.”

The stress was already eating at him, but hearing  _someone is moving against your family_  is only making it worse.

“Anything else?”

“She says the rest are things for me,” Damian says. “And she... she left coordinates.”

“Coordinates?” Bruce feels hope flare in his chest.

“To where... to where they buried mother. It’s overseas. So I would know.”

The hope dies in his chest. He tries not to feel bitter, because he  _wanted_  that information before. Where Talia was buried simply doesn’t matter much to him right then.

“We’ll write it down,” Bruce says. “And we can... can deal with it after.” He doesn’t know what he’ll do about it. He’ll figure it out later.

Damian unwraps each of the remaining gifts. Bruce recognizes most of them. A metal clasp with the symbol of the League, once worn by Ra’s. The handle to Talia’s sword, the blade removed. The most interesting is a tiny capped vial of green fluid, right at the bottom and carefully wrapped. Not enough to bring someone back. Enough for a small injury, maybe. But potentially useful.

Damian takes the most interest in a small dagger, a green gem laid into the handle.

Bruce is pretty sure he’s been stabbed by that exact dagger before. It’s Ra’s own, and Damian tucks it away, collecting his new things.

“You should take the vial,” Damian says. “I’m sure Tim could do something with it.”

Lazarus fluid is firmly in Tim’s wheelhouse, so Bruce takes the vial, keeping it sealed as he sends Tim a message to let him know he can come get it any time. He doesn’t know if Tim will be able to do anything with it, but if nothing else it’ll keep him busy.

Michael and Jason both end up eating dinner with them, but there’s almost no conversation. No one wants to talk, and no one else wants to  _force_  anyone to talk.

Bruce is already trying to come up with his next move.


	9. Chapter 9

“Sir,” Alfred says. “I really must insist you go to bed.”

Alfred’s stopped just behind him, but Bruce can’t bring himself to so much as glance over his shoulder. If he does, he’s going to see Alfred’s disappointment. He’s going to see how tired  _Alfred_  looks, and then  he’s going to... to what? To want to sleep? To want to go to bed himself so Alfred will go to bed rather than hovering over him?

“I need to figure this out,” Bruce says. “Before something else happens.”

“I understand that you are quire alarmed by Miss Raatko’s claims of the family being targeted, but you’ll be of no use to anyone if you’re sleep deprived.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep, Alfred.”

Bruce doubts Jason will be able to either, but at the very least they’re out of the manor. Damian and Jason left just after dinner, and Bruce suspects Jason will use the drive as an excuse to not sleep. Drive until he’s exhausted, then get a room at the closest motel.

“I understand that, sir,” Alfred says. “But you must at least make an attempt. Think of what Master Wilson would say.”

“Don’t use him like a club, Alfred.”

“I think he’d prefer I use him like a club to beat you into compliance than for me to let you work yourself until you pass out.”

Bruce grunts, because Alfred’s right.

“Just... I need to figure this out,” Bruce says. “Then I’ll go to bed.”

“We both know that isn’t how you work, sir,” Alfred says stiffly. “You will stumble upon some new discovery, and then you’ll work yourself to the bone trying to get to the end of it.”

“This is the most basic part of detective work,” Bruce says, as much to himself as it is to Alfred. “It’s about considering who benefits. Who benefits if Slade goes to jail?”

Bruce flips through files absentmindedly. Adeline Kane, for revenge?

“I imagine,” Alfred says, “the person who benefits the most would be anyone who wanted you to spend all night not sleeping, obsessing over your files.”

“No,” Bruce says. “Yes. You’re right. Maybe this isn’t about Slade himself, but instead about his place in the family. Nyssa thought someone was coming after us, and this could just be the opening move.”

Alfred sighs, but decides to humor him.

“Whoever did it would need to be intimately aware of the family’s dynamic,” Alfred points out. “And the fact that Mister Wilson is even a part of the family is far from common knowledge.”

Bruce doesn’t want to start doubting his allies, but  _allies_  make up almost the entire list of people who know all the information that their enemy knew. That Slade would be out of town. That he was the Gotham Knight.

“Someone who knows all about us,” Bruce says. “Who wants to destroy us.”

Alfred makes a small sound of disapproval.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, as stern as he can be. “I really must insist. You are getting no work done. You are turning in circles and going nowhere, and you  _need_  your sleep.”

Bruce doesn’t have the fight in him. He lets Alfred push him out of the cave, back up to his room.

“What about Jason’s room?” He asks before Alfred can leave.

“I’ve already put in a request for a contractor to come assess the damage. Hopefully we can get the damage repaired before he returns.”

Bruce doesn’t want the hole still there when Jason gets back. He doesn’t want that hanging over Jason’s head, a physical reminder of what was just taken from him.

“Alright,” he says. “Goodnight Alfred.”

Alfred frowns at him, but finally does leave, and Bruce considers sneaking down to the cave anyway. He  _knows_  he’s not going to sleep, and he’s right. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind whirling through every single possible option. Through all the possible whos. Through all the possible whys. But he’s getting nowhere.

He wonders if Slade’s asleep, and decides the answer is probably yes. Slade can sleep through anything.

Bruce wonders if that’s army training at work.

Bruce makes himself stay in bed until seven in the morning, and then picks himself up. He’s not sleeping. He knows he’s not sleeping. Alfred frowns at him when he arrives in the kitchen, getting himself a mug of coffee as he gets back to work.

He finds nothing. Or more accurately, he finds nothing helpful. He chases every lead he can think of. Everyone in the asylum is still in the asylum. Everyone in Blackgate is still in Blackgate. He goes so far as to visit Harley at the park she’s claimed as hers in what used to be Arkham City, but the woman simply raises an eyebrow to his non-question.

No, she doesn’t know anything. No, she has nothing to share.

Bruce visits the remains of crime alley on the way out, standing over the outlines of his parents bodies, and turns away.

He lets Alfred check in on the boys and goes back to work. He reads the news coverage of the murder from both Gotham and Metropolis. There’s nothing new on either side, and no mention of Slade’s name. Everything is about Deathstroke. There’s at least one article (on the Metropolis side) pointing out the inherent issues with that, but it doesn’t get much traction.

Bruce misses dinner. He means to make it, but instead he ends up asleep at his desk. He wakes close to eight, disturbed by Alfred coming down, and then finally lets Alfred usher him into his own room and his own bed.

Bruce fall asleep fully clothed, unable to fight the exhaustion any longer.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s been two days since Slade was taken away, and Bruce feels farther from answers than ever. His leads have run dry, and Jason and Damian won’t even be back until that evening. The autopsy comes back from the mayor, but there’s nothing interesting about it. Single shot, clean. Showing skill, but nothing that anyone with a bit of practice couldn’t do. There’s no other physical evidence involved, so Bruce has Barbara pull the security footage.

It’s not very good. It’s grainy. And there’s nothing out of the ordinary about what he sees. It’s just Deathstroke walking up, taking his position, waiting for his target, pulling the trigger, and then packing up and leaving. There’s no epiphany, no answer to be found. They might be military. They might be a hobbyist. They might be a mercenary. 

Bruce is debating hunting down Deadshot--even though the murder is so far below his skill level it’s not even a really conceivable option--when the phone rings.

Bruce shouldn’t be, but he can’t help but feel disappointed when he sees Lucius’s name.

“Lucius,” Bruce greets. “I wasn’t expecting a call.”

“I wasn’t expecting to  _have_  to call,” Lucius says. His voice sounds strained, which makes Bruce sit up a little bit straighter.

“What’s happening?”

“The police just walked in with a warrant, Bruce.”

Bruce doesn’t understand how things are going to hell so fast.

“For  _what_?” He doesn’t understand. Slade’s never been involved with Wayne Enterprises. How did they connect the two points? The only connection is the bats, and if they knew that... well, they’d be at his door, not at work.

“Metropolis police just intercepted a weapon shipment out of Gotham,” Lucius says. “From what they’ve said, it came from us.”

A  _weapons shipment?_

“We’re not arms dealers,” Bruce says, as if that will suddenly make the issue go away.

“Experimental tech,” Lucius says. “The sort of things you’d expect to see Batman using. Gliders. New body armor prototypes.”

Bruce lets himself relax just a bit. This makes sense. He can understand that. Someone’s stolen prototypes and tried to make a run for it with them.

“Are we missing anything?”

“No,” Lucius says. “Or at least I don’t think so. Everything in that side of the business was intact when I left last night. And considering the smugglers were snagged right around then, I don’t understand how someone could have gotten in, taken everything without setting off alarms, and then gotten out of Gotham. The times simply just don’t check out.”

“Do I need to come down?”

“Better not to,” Lucius says. “If they want you, they’ll serve you, but right now I’m handling things.”

Bruce lets himself exhale. He lets himself stay calm.

“This will pass,” Bruce says. “They’ll look at the evidence and realize that we’ve been robbed. We just need to figure out who did it, and how. Especially with you not having noticed.”

“I’ll keep you posted, Bruce.”

Bruce feels increasingly uncomfortable as the hours tick by. There’s no way that the weapons shipment isn’t connected to what’s been happening. The timing is too perfect.

No, the problem is the warrant. You don’t serve warrants to the victim of a robbery. If there’s a warrant involved, it’s because they think Wayne Enterprises was involved somehow.

It’s two in the afternoon when his phone rings again. The number’s unlisted, but it’s his private line, so he doesn’t hesitate to answer. It might be Damian or Jason calling from a motel phone. Maybe they’ve broken down.

“Mr. Wayne,” says the man on the other end. The voice is  _familiar_ , and it takes Bruce a second to place it.

“Mr. Luthor,” he says. “How did you get this number?”

He’s seen Luthor repeatedly, fending off each and every attempt to buy out his Applied Sciences Division.

In exactly zero of those meetings did Bruce give the man his personal number.

“Friend of a friend,” Luthor says. “I wanted to make you an offer, from one man to another.”

Bruce  _almost_  hangs up the phone. But the timing is too good. What does Luthor know that he doesn’t?

“Which is?”

“I hear your company is in trouble,” Luthor says. “I’m here to make another offer, before things get too bad.”

Luthor knows more than him, and Bruce doesn’t like that. He never wants to know less than Lex Luthor does about his  _own company_.

“I wasn’t aware,” Bruce says, leaning heavily into his absent head-of-company persona, the one that lets Lucius handle everything without so much as glancing at a bit of paperwork. “How concerned should I be?”

Luthor loves to hear himself talk, and Bruce is happy to let him.

“Now Bruce,” Luthor says, as if they’re old friends. “I know you were involved in this, but this is what happens when you let other people run your company, rather than guiding it with a firm hand yourself. But some little birdies tell me that Wayne Enterprises has been caught red handed selling weapons to all sorts of miscreants. Criminals. Gangs. Mercenaries, even. It’s not a good look for any company, least of all one from Gotham.”

Bruce doesn’t point out that Gotham is doing  _much_  better as of late. He doesn’t point out that the violent crime rate is almost at the same level of Metropolis itself.

“They did what?” He said instead, as if this is the first he’s heard of it.

“I’m not surprised they didn’t tell you,” Luthor says. “Seems like the kind of thing they’d keep to themselves. So I wanted to offer you a chance to get out of it. To sell to me and avoid all the legal trouble for yourself. I’m perfectly willing to backdate it for you, so that all of this went down while it was under my control.”

“For a discount,” Bruce says.

“Of course,” Luthor says. “I can’t play top dollar for used goods, and anything coming out of Wayne Enterprises now is going to have a stain on it.”

“I don’t think I can,” Bruce says. “I’d have to talk to Lucius, and I’m not sure I could do that with what’s happening.”

He leans as hard as he can into the persona he wears around people like Luthor, and Luthor seems to buy it.

“I’m sure we can find a way. For the good of the employees, of course. I’m sure most of them would prefer to be out of Gotham, and away from the scandal.”

Bruce wonders if he went all the way to Metropolis and shook him down, what Luthor would have to say. But he doesn’t have the time, and Metropolis isn’t his territory. If he crosses the bay, he’s going to wind up risking bringing attention he absolutely doesn’t want.

“I’ll look into it,” Bruce says. “And talk to Lucius.”

“Lucius Fox is a fool,” Luthor says. “That’s why I had to seek you out directly.”

“Oh!” Bruce says. “That’s him - he’s calling me right now. But I’ll talk to him about it, and I’m sure he’ll contact you.”

It’s a lie. No one’s calling him. But he’s got what he needs to from Luthor, and there’s no point in dragging out the conversation any longer.

“I’m sure you have my number, Mr. Wayne,” Luthor says.

Bruce hangs out and sags back in his desk. Wayne Enterprises, selling weapons to gangs? To mercenaries? The timing is suspect, but it does lead to one very obvious conclusion: That whoever is after them knows that Wayne Enterprise is connected to the bats.

They  _know_. It’s the second time in two years he’s run straight into the same issue, only where the League’s efforts were careful probing, this is something else entirely. This is a slash and burn effort.

He makes some calls. Lucius lets him know that it’s more or less what Luthor said--that the weapons claimed in the raid at the Metropolis docks were  _bought_ , not stolen. The distinct lack of break-in records only lends validity to the theory.

Bruce is contacted by the police later in the afternoon. It’s not Gordon--it’s an entirely different division, and not one Bruce has dealt with before--and he leans into his oblivious company owner persona even more.

He’s exhausted by the time they leave, convinced he knows nothing from sheer incompetence.

“This is quite concerning,” Alfred says once they are gone. “I assume you have already determined the most likely reason for this?”

“To tie up Lucius,” Bruce says. “Whatever equipment we have is what we’re keeping. We can’t get anything new. We can’t get any replacements. He’s going to be watched like a hawk while they investigate, and we can’t risk any connection.”

That’s a second ally suddenly out of commission. 


	11. Chapter 11

Jason and Damian get back not long after eleven. Titus looks happy to be out of the car, running a loop around the house before trotting back to his master’s side. Jason looks to be in a foul mood, while Damian looks slightly less withdrawn.

“I’m guessing your inquiries weren’t particularly fruitful?” Bruce asks as he helps them unload the car.

Jason waits until they’re all inside to answer the question, taking a seat and sagging into the couch.

“No,” he says. “Not really. We went out and got there a bit early. I showed Damian the grave, since we were there anyway. Catnapped in the car. Then we went and pulled some local records--”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, and Jason scowls.

“ _Legally_ ,” Jason protests. “I wanted to see how easily someone could find out about Joseph, just going from Slade’s last name. Turns out there’s only one Wilson family in the town, so they gave me his records immediately. So if someone knew who Deathstroke was, it’d be no trouble at all for them to get most of the information they needed.”

Another dead end, apparently.

“Their security was highly disappointing,” Damian says with a sigh. “I assumed we would have to break in.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Bruce says. “And the ex-wife?”

“Adeline Kane,” Jason says. “Formerly Adeline Wilson. I decided to favor the legal way and just knocked on her door when I knew she was home.”

“Did she let you in?” Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow. He wonders if Jason knows about Slade’s eye. It seems like the kind of detail Slade might just  _forget_  to mention.

“She did, yeah. Recognized me from the graveyard when we last met. Complained the whole time about how she knew Slade’s life was eventually going to interfere with hers again. But from what she said, she didn’t even know he was missing.”

“And you believe her?”

“She laughed when I told him he was in jail,” Jason says. “Said she knew they’d get him eventually. Seems like she’d probably have made at least an effort to seem sympathetic if she was trying to hide something, but instead she seemed happy about the whole thing. Said it served him right.”

Bruce can’t imagine that Jason had a good reaction to that, and he winces.

“Did you get anything else from her?”

“Nothing,” Jason admits. “If she’s involved in every way, she’s doing a damned good job of hiding it. After I left I staked her out afternoon, but it was business as usual.”

“We went to a nice hotel,” Damian says conspiratorially. “We had to sneak Titus in. They had a strict no-dog policy.”

“And then you came home,” Bruce asks, and both Jason and Damian nod.

Damian is hiding something though. It’s the kind of hiding something that means he’s  _bursting_  to tell but isn’t allowed to, and Bruce runs his eyes across the pair of them.

“Out with it,” he says. “We don’t have time for secrets.”

“It isn’t a big deal-” Jason says, right as Damian blurts it out.

“Jason let me drive!”

Bruce buries his face in his hand.

“Jason,” Bruce says. “He’s  _fourteen_ , he can’t even-”

“Father,” Damian says very formally. “I have been able to drive since the age of eight, driving was-”

“He’s fine,” Jason says. “No one noticed. No one cared.”

“We can’t take risks like that,” Bruce says. “Someone knows who we are, and they’re doing everything they can to ruin us. They served a warrant at work today. They’ve claimed someone from the Applied Sciences Division has been selling prototypes to criminals.”

“Have we?”

“No,” Bruce says. “And none of our prototypes seem to be missing, which only makes things make  _less_  sense.”

“So what did the police get their hands on then?” Jason asks, confused.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “The best chance we have of figuring things out is if the Batman goes to investigate. Someone selling experimental weapons in Gotham is the sort of thing he’d look into if it was anyone but Wayne Enterprises.”

“I’ll suit up then,” Jason says. “See what I can find.”

“I’m going,” Damian says, already hopping to his feet.

Bruce doesn’t protest.

It takes three hours for Jason and Damian to get back that night, and when they do, Jason’s expression is somehow even more angry than before.

“They’re not our stuff,” Jason says. “They  _look_ like it, but the details are different. This is stuff  _made_  to look like it’s from Wayne Enterprises prototype room. Stuff that looks and acts a lot like the various things they’ve made for us.”

“So it’s a fraud,” Bruce says. “Not a break-in.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Jason says. “If I was going to guess, same person who made the fake Deathstroke armor probably made this stuff.”

Bruce can’t tell if he’s relieved or not.

“How did they connect it to the company, then?” Bruce asks, and Jason actually  _growls_.

“Because the guys they caught it with said they bought it from a guy at Wayne Enterprises. That he’s been selling to them for months.”

Which ties up Lucius nicely. He’s not going to be able to move anything in or out. The only  _real_  relief is that it’s obviously short term. With no actual sale, there won’t be any charges laid. The problem will solve itself with only a bit of nudging from Lucius.

But things somehow manage to get even  _worse_  the following morning. Bruce wakes to his alarm, and he’s still getting dressed when he checks the news.

Every major newspaper in Gotham is reporting the same story: Source say that Wayne Enterprises has been outfitting the various criminals that have plagued Gotham, and that now that those criminals have been arrested, they’ve started selling  _outside_  of Gotham.

The story is almost entirely uniform. It’s based on a  _confidential source_. They’ve apparently seen evidence.

One newspaper reporting it would be bad.  _Three_ is something else entirely. It’s a coordinated smear campaign, obviously intended to rile up the populace against them.

But it gives Bruce a single lead.

 _Someone_  had to give that confidential lead to them.  _Someone_  had to show that proof.

“I could go as Batman,” Jason suggests, but Bruce shakes his head.

“No,” Bruce says. “I can use this.” It’s the first time since Slade was taken that he feels he has even a bit of control over the situation. He knows  _exactly_ how he wants to play it.

Jason looks uncertain, but finally does nod.

“Alright,” he says. “It’s in your hands. Do we - do we know if Slade was moved yet?”

“He’s in Blackgate now,” Bruce confirms. “If you want to go, try and keep a low profile. If Jim finds out-”

“Fuck Gor-”

“Jason!” Bruce interrupts. “I know. I know it’s frustrating and I know it’s bad, but Jim’s hands were tied. He’s done what he can to help us, but he’s not a miracle worker.”

Jason looks away, furious, and then simply storms out of the room. Damian frowns and watches him go.

“...I’ll go with Jason,” Damian says. “Just to make sure he’s alright.”

Bruce suspects Damian wants to go see Slade for his own reasons, but it’s a lot easier for him to act like he’s there for Jason’s sake.

“Of course,” Bruce says. “Keep an eye out for Jason.”

Damian nods, and then heads out after him while Bruce goes to change.


	12. Chapter 12

There are three reporters, which  _technically_  means three chances. Bruce doubts he’ll get all three. The journalism industry is Gotham is close-knit, and if one of them rejects him, he’ll likely call around.

So he chooses carefully.

Clarence Wells is a career reporter with an interest in investigative journalism. He’s a Gotham man, born and bred, but he’s very firmly on the lower end of middle class. He’s the kind of man who’s involved in his job for a chance to make things  _right_ , not because he gets a paycheck.

He’s going to get his chance.

Bruce shows up to the Gotham Free Press office in a suit, with a poster tube slung over his shoulder. Everyone recognizes him, because it’s not possible to be a Gotham reporter and  _not_  recognize him, but it takes a few hastily whispered conversations before someone approaches him. Everyone  _else_  is too busy craning their necks over the walls of their cubicles, trying to act like they’re not looking while very obviously looking.

“Mr. Wayne?” The man says. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He’s never done an interview with them, and that’s a face that he’s sure is  _very_  prominent in their minds as he stands in the entrance to the single large room that serves as their office.

“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Wells.”

The man who approached him--probably an editor--goes ramrod straight.

“If this is about his piece-”

“This is about his piece,” Bruce says. “But if you’re worried I’m here to threaten legal action, I’m not.”

The editor obviously doesn’t believe him, but it doesn’t matter. One of the men stands up, scowling at Bruce. He’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, a scowl on his face, and somehow he manages to look even more grizzled than the picture Bruce found of him, like he’s aged a decade in the last year.

Maybe it was just a really old picture.

“If Mr. Wayne wants to threaten me, Archie,” Wells says, “then he’s welcome to. I’ll tape the whole thing and we can publish it. Great publicity.”

Bruce likes him already.

“You have no such luck,” Bruce says. “But I would like to talk to you in private.”

“Take my office,” Archie says. “Next floor up.”

The editor’s office isn’t much better than the cubicle farm below, but at least there’s no one else in it. There’s stacks of old newspapers lined up against a wall, and a few small awards on a bulletin board on one side. Bruce wonders how Wells ended up with the story, and eventually decides asking wouldn’t hurt.

“Can I ask why you ended up with the Wayne Enterprises story?” He asks, making a show of inspecting the awards.

“Sure,” Wells asks. “You can  _ask_. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

When Bruce doesn’t immediately correct himself, though, Wells does give him an answer.

“They asked for whoever had an open desk that was interested in a big story. I just finished my last one, so that was me.”

So whoever was spreading the story was going for a scattershot. Contacting each newspaper in turn, giving them the information, and letting them do what they wanted with it.

“For the record,” Bruce says, “I picked you because you’ve won three awards for investigative journalism."

“And what, exactly, did you pick me for?”

Bruce reaches up, slinging the poster tube off his shoulder and uncapping it.

“The  _other_  reason I chose you,” Bruce says, “is because fifteen years ago, before the Gotham police department started to tacitly endorse him, you wrote a piece in support of the vigilante known as the Batman, and described him as a necessary evil in order to keep the city from falling into anarchy. That piece got you fired from the Gotham Globe.”

Wells squares his shoulders, defensive.

“I stand by that piece,” he says. “Don’t regret it for a moment.”

“Good,” Bruce says, pulling the massive blueprint from the tube and unfurling it. It’s too large to sit on the desk, so Bruce simply lays it on the floor.

“What the...” Wells says, staring down at it.

“These,” Bruce says with a wave of his hand. “Are the schematics for the suit currently worn by batman. The V7.43, in particular.”

Wells makes a small strangled noise.

“Can I... Can I take a picture?”

“I’m afraid not,” Bruce says. He’s already prepared for the possibility that Wells will, because the blueprints an old model, even if it  _looks_  almost identical to the current suit. “It would put the man wearing it at risk.”

Wells stares at Bruce like he’s grown another head.

“What...” He says, taking a breath to recover himself. “What  _is_  this? You can’t just be showing me this for no reason.”

“Mr. Wells,” Bruce says formally. “I’m here because Wayne Enterprises has been helping outfit the Batman for years. I’ve always stood by Gotham, and when it became obvious that Gotham’s best chance of standing up to the criminals that were plaguing it was a man running around doing things on his own, I reached out to offer my assistance. I’ve been helping fun the man for years, and  _now_ , I have every reason to believe that someone is trying to use me to get to him.”

“The article,” Wells says, his eyebrows furrowing together in a tight line. “That was connected to this?”

“Right now,” Bruce says, “I imagine that Batman is focused on investigating the mayor’s murder. This article couldn’t have come at a worse time for him-”

“You know who he is?”

Bruce is pretty sure it’s  _stars_  in Wells eyes, not dollar signs. That’s good.

“No,” Bruce says. “He’s offered, but I declined. If I ever get called into court and asked his identity, I’d prefer to be able to say I have no idea who the Batman is without perjuring myself.”

“Not a bad idea,” Wells admits, inspecting the blueprints. “So Wayne Enterprise has been helping Batman?”

“Let’s be honest,” Bruce says. “I suspect that you and quite a large portion of Gotham have known we were for ages. You’re only surprised because I’m actually  _confirming_ it.”

Wells glances back over his shoulder, giving Bruce a grin.

“Guilty as charged,” he says. “With the tech that the Batman’s using... It has to come from somewhere. So either the Batman is richer than you are and has his own personal R&D department,  _none_  of which have ever leaked anything, or he’s piggybacking off someone else.”

“He does a lot of his own designs,” Bruce says. “We simply help with the tech and construction.”

“Hold on,” Wells says. Bruce expects him to get a tape recorder. Instead he pulls out a notepad and a pen, scribbling down notes in messy shorthand. “This is a lot of information. You said this is connected to the mayor’s murder?”

“I don’t know that,” Bruce says. “I can’t even say for sure he’s investigating it. But I imagine he is, because that’s what he does. And having this happen so soon after feels... suspect. This is the most high profile death in Gotham in years.”

“Well, we definitely agree on that,” Wells says, making more notes. “So what’s the angle on the articles?”

“Three articles,” Bruce says. “One for each major Gotham newspaper. Almost identical contents. Your source was someone who wanted to get the news out, no matter what. But when I checked, Wayne Enterprises has all our prototypes in order. No break-ins or things unaccounted for.”

Wells is actually  _biting_  the cigarette still hanging between his lips, his focus obvious as he scribbles down more notes.

“The prototypes weren’t ours,” Bruce says. “I think someone’s trying to make sure that the Batman’s cut off from the people helping him. Right now, there’s nothing we can do for him.”

“And you want my source?” Wells asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I understand that your journalism ethics would prevent you from doing that,” Bruce says. “But what I  _would_  encourage you to do is to report the encounter to the police. Am I right in guessing they showed you one of those ‘Wayne Enterprises Prototypes’?”

Wells has a good poker face, but Bruce has a whole lot of experience in reading small reactions, and there’s a tiny little quirk of his eyebrow, an obvious  _how the hell did he know that_?

“I think they’re connected to whoever made those prototypes,” Bruce says. “And I think they’re using the media to their own ends.”

He rolls the blueprint back up, sliding it back into the tube as Wells makes even more notes.

He’s surprised when Wells holds out a little note for him to take, neatly folded.

“You get that back to the man in black,” Wells says. “And see what he can scare up.”

Bruce nods, tucking the note away and making a point not to read it right then and there.

“My question is,” Wells says. “Am I good to publish this?”

“I expected you to,” Bruce says. “I’m not in the business of telling a journalist what he can and can’t publish.”

Wells grins.

“Seems like we’ll get along.”

It’s a strategic move, confirming the connection between Wayne Enterprise and Batman, but it’s something that almost everyone probably already suspects. It’s a high reward, low risk move. The only  _possible_  complication is that if the federal government ever decided to take issue with Batman, they’d end up coming after Wayne Enterprises... but Bruce suspects they’d probably have started there even without a solid confirmation.

Bruce pulls out a business card--the one with his work number--and hands it over.

“If you need anything else,” Bruce says. “Please call me. That said, I imagine you probably have quite a lot of work to do.”

“Absolutely do,” Wells says. “Going to have to get this to the editor tonight.”

Bruce leaves him to his work. The more time he has to work on the article, the better things will turn out.


	13. Chapter 13

Jason’s at home when Bruce gets back, and they settle in for dinner (With a short lecture from Alfred about not skipping meals) to exchange information.

“How was Slade?” Bruce asks, because that’s priority number one.

“Living it up in Blackgate,” Jason says, sounding bitter. “Apparently after some debate they decided he didn’t need to be in solitary, and now he’s living it up as top dog.”

Bruce isn’t all that surprised to hear it. The only surprising part is that they put Slade in with general population. He can only imagine what Slade’s doing to Penguin in close quarters.

Bruce wishes he’d felt the need to spell out  _don’t murder anyone in prison_  alongside  _don’t try and escape_.

“Anything else?”

“He says they took blood samples,” Damian says. “To make sure he wasn’t sick.”

“He doesn’t  _get_  sick,” Bruce says with a frown. Why do they need blood samples?

“It’s suspicious,” Jason agrees. “We’re keeping an eye on things.”

“Try and pretend to keep it plausible,” Bruce says. “I know you want to see him-”

“I’m not an idiot,” Jason protests. “The most important thing is getting him out of there.”

Bruce clears his plate and pulls out the paper, holding it up.

“Then this is what you want,” Bruce says. “I did an interview with one of the reporters. They’ll be spinning a counter-story, connecting Wayne Enterprises to Batman, and implying that the previous set of articles were the result of  _subtle machinations of a yet unseen party_.”

“You gave them the  _truth_?” Jason asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Part of it,” Bruce says. “I told him I’d met the Batman, but didn’t know who was under the cowl so that I wouldn’t have to perjure myself if it came down to it.”

Jason shakes his head, but he doesn’t protest or point out any major flaws in the plan, so Bruce takes it as a win.

“This is the man who reported it,” Bruce says. “Who leaked the story to the press. One way or another, he’s involved. I doubt he’s our culprit, but he’s probably  _working_  for whoever’s behind all this.”

Jason takes the paper, reading the name over, and then stands up.

“I’m going to run it through the computer and get an address.”

“Already did,” Bruce says. “It’s loaded into the navigation system. He’s a Wayne Enterprise employee.”

“Applied Sciences Division?”

“Maintenance,” Bruce says. “Which means he has building access.”

Jason nods, and Alfred’s already starting to clean the table. “Going to monitor us from the cave?”

“I’ll be listening in,” Bruce confirms.

He makes himself coffee and settles in at the computer, listening in through their comms. There’s not much chatter, and for the most part it’s just him sitting in silence, listening to the brief back and forths.

“Front door?” Jason suggests.

“He has a balcony,” Damian points out. “Surprising him would minimize chance of a violent response.”

“Let’s go.”

Bruce can’t hear them, but he can imagine. He knows how fast and agile Damian is, darting ahead and putting himself in danger. But Jason’s done a lot to moderate him, to keep him from going too far away. He stays in eyesight now.

“We will not be questioning him,” Damian says, and Bruce leans forward slightly.

“Why?”

“Oh hell,” Jason mutters. “Hung himself. Or someone hung him. First impression is definitely suicide, but...”

But it’s suspicious. It’s  _beyond_  suspicious, and it feels a lot more like someone’s tidying up lose ends. Bruce listens in as Damian and Jason let themselves into the apartment, performing a cursory search, careful not to disturb anything.

“He was helped,” Damian says.

“How do you know?” Bruce prompts. It helps Damian to get questions, to know what he needs to explain.

“It was a sloppy job,” Damian says. “Or no one cared enough to really cover it up. The chair he supposedly used to hang himself is too far away. He’d have had to have kicked it to get it that far.”

“Are you sure?” Says Jason.

“I could demonstrate-”

“Absolutely not,” Jason says. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“So are we all in agreement then?” Bruce asks, just so he doesn’t have to think about Damian demonstrating by hanging himself.

“That this is someone killing off the loose end so he can’t snitch? Yeah. I’m going to call GCPD and let them know what’s happening.”

The timing, for once, actually works for them. He doubts that Wells will maintain confidentiality with his source having been murdered.

It’s a rare victory, and Bruce tries to focus on it. Tries to remember it, even as Jason and Damian return from patrol.

Because even if it helps the situation a bit, it also means that their best lead is completely useless to them. If someone was willing to fake a suicide, the odds they left behind any evidence of what happened are slim. Bruce can make assumptions, but those assumptions aren’t  _answers_. They aren’t  _confirmations._

He wishes Slade were there. More than anyone, Slade would be the one to sit with him and work through the options. He’d be the one to bounce ideas of.

As it stands, he needs to make an announcement, so he signals for everyone to tune in. It takes almost an hour before everyone’s on comms, checking in and waiting for what Bruce has to say. Damian and Jason sit on the stone steps of the cave, listening in without saying anything.

“Everyone here?” Bruce asks, getting a round of  _I’m here_  from everyone before he speaks again.

“I should have addressed you all already,” Bruce says, “but I’ve been going from one point to another. I’m sure you all know that Deathstroke’s been arrested. And I’m sure you all saw the news this morning.”

There’s another round of acknowledgement.

“We have some fairly solid evidence that the group as a whole is being targeted,” Bruce says. “So everyone needs to be careful. Travel in groups where you can. Keep weapons on you. If you can wear armor under your clothes, do so.”

“How big’s the danger?” Tim asks. “Is this a ‘get out of town’ kind of thing?”

Bruce isn’t sure. He wants the family there, but Tim has a  _child_. He has people to be concerned about.

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits. “They’ve already killed people. I can’t say you won’t be in danger.”

Bruce is sure that Tim’s talking with Barbara, but it’s not over the comms. He can’t listen in, can’t be involved in the discussion.

“I won’t blame anyone who wants to leave,” Bruce says. He’s not sure it needs to be said, but he says it anyway.

“I think,” Tim finally says, “that if Nightwing will have us, we might come up to to Bludhaven for a visit.”

“I’ll get the guestroom ready,” Nightwing says.

Bruce should be upset. He should be unhappy that Tim isn’t going to be around. But people are getting killed, and if anything happened to them...

“For the record,” Stephanie says. “I’m staying.”

At least that’s one less thing to worry about.

“Staying,” Michael confirms.

“If you guys have a place for me,” Duke says, “I’ll come down and visit. Sounds like you’re going to need more people.”

“I’ve got room,” Stephanie volunteers before Bruce can volunteer.

Probably for the better either way. The less people are alone, the better.

“Azrael?” Bruce asks.

“I’ll be staying in Gotham,” he says.

“I was wondering if you wanted to stay at the manor until things are handled,” Bruce says.

“Oh,” Michael says, silent for a moment. “I should be fine,” he finally says. “I have work, and I need to... cover for my boss.”

Jason winces where he sits, but doesn’t respond. They’ve been trying to do better about keeping compromising information, and it seems like everyone is significantly more aware of the need.

“Of course,” Bruce says. “Offer still stands if you change your mind.”

“Of course,” Michael confirms.

“Anyone have anything else to discuss?” Bruce asks, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling of the cave high overhead. It’s not even midnight, and he’s tired. He’s done too much in one day. He’s been pushing himself too hard, and he can just  _imagine_  what Slade would say about that.

“Nope,” says Stephanie, speaking effectively for everyone in the ensuing silence.

“Remember what I said,” Bruce says. “Be careful. Don’t take any chances. If you see anything odd, call it in.”

“You got it boss,” Duke says.

Bruce pulls the headset off his head, turning his attention to Jason and Damian.

“No normal patrols for now,” Bruce says. “You heard it all?”

Jason and Damian both nod.

“Then I vote we go to bed,” Bruce says. “Because I’m... beyond exhausted.”

“You look it,” Jason says. “I’m going to stay up a bit. Try and see if anything else comes up.”

Bruce nods, leaving the two of them to the cave.

He needs sleep. 


	14. Chapter 14

The article does its work. The most obvious and telling sign of that fact is when the mayor of Gotham’s secretary calls him up a bit before lunch to give him a hasty invite to the swearing-in ceremony. Bruce gets the distinct impression that he wasn’t on the list up until that point, but accepts the invite with all the grace he can manage.

He tasks Alfred with watching the news to make absolutely sure they won’t be caught off guard and heads to the ceremony.

It’s not a big thing the way it normally is. It’s a smaller, more somber affair, with little more than two dozen people in attendance. No one wants to throw a big party when the previous mayor’s funeral hasn’t even happened (Bruce knows it’s tomorrow, and he’s already sent flowers).

Bruce keeps to the back of the room, polite but out of place. These are Gotham’s political elite, and he is there largely as a favor to him, in recognition of the sheer amount of money he’s dumped into the city.

Just for a moment, Bruce gets the impression that he’s out of place, an intruder in something he has no part in, but the feeling passes quickly.

“Neil,” Bruce says when the new mayor finds him once the swearing-in is complete. “Or I suppose that would be ‘Mayor Harrell’ now?”

“Please,” Neil says with a laugh. “If you start calling me  _Mayor Harrell_  I’m going to go insane. Neil is fine.”

“Only if you still call me Bruce,” he replies.

Neil’s smile falters.

“I want you to know,” he says, leaning in and dropping his voice, “that I wanted you here anyway. I don’t believe any of those rumors, but the council said it was too politically risky to have you here if things got any worse. But maybe we should talk in my office?”

Bruce lets himself be guided over to the mayor’s office. It’s still in transition, two boxes of Hady’s things set against the wall, waiting for someone to come pick them up. Neil looks ill at ease as he settles in behind the desk.

“When my advisers told me the news, I was pretty taken aback,” Neil says. “Seemed totally out of character for you. You’ve always looked out for Gotham, so the implication that you’d been working behind our backs like that? No, it didn’t sit right to me at all. I was a hell of a relief when I read this morning’s paper. Don’t even get the  _Free Press_  at home, but one of the interns brought it in for me to read over. Do you know if the reporter’s talked to the police?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Bruce says. “I imagine that the police are being careful around me. Can’t risk the investigation to stop and chat.”

“Of course not,” Neil says. “Hopefully he has. The faster this gets cleared up, the better.”

Neil’s face darkens, and he leans back in his chair, exhaling deeply through his nose before his eyes finally flick up to meet Bruce’s own.

“Do you really think this is connected to the Batman?” Neil says. “Because personally, I’m a lot more worried about you. The Batman can take care of himself, but you...”

“I’ve got the best security money can buy,” Bruce says. “So you don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do,” Neil says, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been helping this city pull itself out of the abyss, and if something happens to you I can only imagine the kind of free fall the city would find itself in. I was looking forward to the party, but it might be safer if we skipped it entirely.”

The party. Bruce had forgotten the offer he made, and only just manages to cover his wince.

“No no,” he says. “I don’t think it’s that bad. This is corporate sabotage at it’s finest. I don’t want anyone panicking because we had to cancel what should have been a nice night.”

He can’t have it in the manor. Even if he’s playing it off as being  _of no great concern_ , the concern is still there. He needs to keep everyone safe, and hosting it at the manor is... well, it’s asking for trouble.

“If you’re worried,” he says. “What about the conference center down on eighth street? It’s not as swanky as having it in the mansion, but I know it’s fairly security conscious.”

“If you think that’d be best,” Neil says. “I’m still a bit worried someone’s going to have to take another go at you, Bruce.”

“I’ll be fine.” He gives Neil his most confident smile. “I’ll call my people and get things set up. Saturday night?”

“That sounds fine to me,” Neil says. “I guess you’re handling the guest list?”

“It’s your party,” Bruce says. “I’m just the one throwing it. Can your office...?”

“Sure,” Neil says. “We’ll collaborate. Hopefully between the two of this, we can get things done.”

Bruce hands the job off almost the moment he’s out of the mayor’s office. He doesn’t have time to go over the fine details, and any lack of care will simply be taken as being respectfully somber in response to the previous mayor’s death. He calls in a company that’s handled a few of his parties before, promises to compensate them for the short notice, and then lets them run themselves.

He’s tempted to visit Blackgate, but pushes the idea aside. Instead, he checks in with Lucius, fighting the urge to drag Jim into a conflict of interest investigation by calling him. It’s one thing if Jim talks to an old friend while on an investigation. It’s a whole other if Jim talks to the old friend while that old friend is still under active investigation.

He’s surprised to find Tim’s car parked in front of the manor when he gets back. There's no sign of Barbara, which makes sense: She’s probably already gone on ahead.

Tim’s waiting for him in the entrance-way, inspecting the still unpainted patch on the wall.

“Tim,” Bruce says. “I thought you were already gone?”

“I had to call in to work,” Tim says. “Told them it was a family emergency, and I’d be gone a week. They were happy to accommodate me, so it wasn’t a big deal.”

“And Barbara?”

“She hasn’t taken a day of vacation since she got back,” Tim says. “So she apologized for the short notice and said we were going on a cruise.”

A cruise. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“Bruce,” Tim says, and his voice sounds strained. “I just wanted to apologize. I should-”

“Tim,” Bruce says. “Apology firmly rejected. You don’t need to apologize for me. Family comes first.”

“Family  _does_  come first,” Tim says. “And I’m leaving my family to fend for themselves.”

“The most important person to protect is the person who can’t help themselves,” Bruce says. “A toddler doesn’t have any place in this, and the farther away from this you all are, the better I can sleep at night.”

Tim swallows, and Bruce gives him a small smile.

“You didn’t have to apologize,” Bruce says. “But it is good to see you. Give Dick my best, and try not to drive him crazy while you’re up there.”

Bruce worries if Bludhaven is too nearby to be truly safe, but he knows that Dick’s house is ready to withstand anything short of the US army marching on it.

“Who says I came to see you?” Tim says with a small laugh. “Maybe I came to pick up food from Alfred.”

“Did you already talk to everyone else?”

“Damian doesn’t approve of us leaving,” Tim says. “He thinks we’d be safer here. I think he’d prefer if everyone he knows would just move into the manor all at once.”

“And Jason?”

“I made him promise to keep an eye on Steph. This isn’t her first time flying solo, but I still worry about her.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Tim does end up picking up a picnic basket worth of food from Alfred to take with him, including all of his  _and_  Dick’s favorites. Damian’s sulking a bit as he goes, and Bruce scratches between Titus’s ears until the motion distracts Damian, dragging him out of his sulk to pay more attention to his dog.


	15. Chapter 15

It has been six days since Slade was taken away in handcuffs, and Bruce thinks he’s going to go insane. The first few days were a flurry, following up leads, chasing down people to question, and making sure everyone is kept in the loop.

And then nothing.

Absolutely nothing has happened since the article. Since the person behind everything killed an employee of Wayne Enterprises to cover their trail. It’s been a lot of  _nothing_ , and Bruce is exhausted at jumping at shadows.

“Maybe we scared them off?” Jason speculates, his eyes still on the paperwork in front of him. “They weren’t expecting you to fight back.”

“There’s no way,” Bruce says, “that anyone who knows I was Batman could not be expecting me to fight back.”

Bruce tries to busy himself preparing for the party. Everything’s already set up thanks to the people he’s hired, but he still has to get himself ready. He has a nice suit already ready, but he still needs to tidy himself. He hasn’t been shaving as regularly as he’d like, and he’s overdue for some dye.

“Holy shit,” Jason says when he peeks into the master bathroom. “You actually do dye your own hair.”

“I prefer not to remind people that I’m aging,” Bruce says. “Or what color my roots are.”

Jason frowns a bit at that. He’s never mentioned the greenish tinge, and it’s just become one of the many things entirely unspoken between them.

“Michael says he’s coming over,” Jason says after a bit of hesitation. “Doesn’t sound urgent, but he said he’d explain when he gets here.”

 _Doesn’t sound urgent_  sounds dead wrong when he arrives. Bruce can tell, just from a glance, that Michael’s wearing his Azrael gear under his clothes. He’s a bulky guy to begin with, but the Azrael armor isn’t particularly subtle. Even so late in the year he’d have a hard time passing it off.

Michael waits until he’s inside, dropping his bag in the entrance-way, to pull at the back of his pant leg, revealing a slash.

“Someone tried to grab me,” Michael says. “Two men. Street clothes. One tried to cut my calf to keep me from running, and the other one had some kind of auto-injector. Probably a sedative.”

Jason makes a distressed sound.

“This is the sort of thing you should say  _over the comms_ ,” Jason says.

“I didn’t want to panic anyone,” Michael says. “I’m fine.”

“Someone tried to kidnap you,” Bruce says. “Did you see anything else?”

Michael shakes his head.

“Garden variety thugs,” Michael says. “No obvious symbols, no masks. I suspect they were hired help, because they didn’t seem to know what to do when they cut my leg and didn’t get any blood.”

Apparently, the thought that Michael might be wearing his suit hadn’t occurred to any of them. That’s good--it means they’re not completely behind.

“We should cancel the party,” Damian says. “You should remain here, father, to avoid an attempt.”

“No,” Bruce says. “If someone tried to kidnap Michael in that manner, it seems like they have a poor grasp of our countermeasures. What we need to do is continue the plan as we had planned, and hope for the best.”

The plan, as it stands, is simple: Bruce is bait. He’ll mingle among the party guests, dressed to the nines in a suit with kevlar built into it. As long as they don’t go for his head, he’ll be just fine. Azrael, Batgirl, and Signal will be on the surrounding rooftops, keeping a low profile and watching out for the possibility of a sniper.

Jason will be at the party, representing Wayne Outreach.

The only person who  _doesn’t_  like the plan is Damian. Damian, who insists he attend.

“You’re too small for an armored suit to go unnoticed,” Jason points out.

“Then let me be on the roof!” Damian protests.

“We need someone at the manor,” Bruce says. “The manor has protections, but we need at least one fighter here to make sure those aren’t breached while we’re elsewhere.”

He’s not just giving Damian work to do. He’s become increasingly wary of the manor’s security, double checking it multiple times a day. If the manor falls, they’ll be in extreme danger. As long as it stands, they still have a place to fall back to.

Damian sulks, and Alfred pats him on the shoulder.

“Will they not think it’s unusual that your youngest is not in attendance?” Damian protests, as if that’s a winning argument.

“They’d think it weird if you did,” Jason counters. “Every single other boy your age would be bored to tears being dragged to an event like this.”

“But they’re interesting!”

“And you are literally the only person in the world who thinks that, Dami.”

Damian rolls his eyes, and Jason ruffles his hair, only to have his hand swatted away.

“Stay here,” Bruce says. “Make sure Alfred’s safe. You can help coordinate, as long as you promise to keep an eye on building security.”

“Fine,” Damian says. “Titus and I will maintain security on the manor grounds.”

Bruce gives him a smile.


	16. Chapter 16

The party is not up to his usual standard, and Bruce tries not to let that bother him. The food isn’t that good, the decoration is rushed, and the guest list doesn’t even hit three digits.

Neil seems to be having the time of his life.

“I want you to know,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “that I’ve never actually had a party thrown in my honor before.”

“Not even a birthday party?” Bruce says, sipping from sparkling water like it’s champagne. He’s not willing to risk even a drop of alcohol, considering what’s at stake, but he has to keep up appearances.

“That,” Neil protests, “is nothing like this. This is... black tie and the best of Gotham. Everyone who’s anyone is here.”

Bruce doesn’t agree. There are a lot of people not here, but he supposes it at least passes the sniff test. This is the sort of event that people would  _say_  has everyone, even though he knows quite a few business owners who discretely rejected the invitation with their condolences.

He suspects it has more to do with his still recovering reputation than with Mayor Harrell himself.

Public opinion has firmly swung back in his favor, but that doesn’t mean people have forgotten.

“Have you talked to Mr. Ritte?” Bruce suggests, nodding to a man on the other side of the ballroom. “He mentioned he was hoping to speak with you at some point.”

“Oh, I haven’t yet, excuse me, I should make some introductions.”

Neil leaves Bruce behind, and he breathes a sigh of relief, briefly stepping aside as if about to speak to the staff. His finger taps the communicator.

“Status?”

“Everyone’s in place,” Michael confirms. “No sign of anything.”

“No suspicious behavior,” Stephanie confirms. “Just a cold and boring night. Make sure you save us some food, alright?”

“I’ll save you some food,” Bruce confirms. “Assuming we get through this night without a crisis.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Duke says.

Bruce returns to the party, mingling with the guests. He knows them all, and they know him, and it’s easy to keep an eye out, watching for anyone acting unusually.

He’s midway through a toast to the late mayor when the communicator in his ear crackles to life, and he only just manages to keep from losing his place.

“We’ve got contact,” Duke says. “North side.”

“Two figures,” Stephanie says. “One’s bigger and bulkier, one’s thinner.”

“Moving to intercept,” Michael says, and Bruce lets his eyes drift over to the north wall.

Of course it’s the north wall, because that’s the side with sliding glass doors that open up to the small garden. Technically a place to chat in a bit more privacy, but more realistically used as a place to smoke. Bruce's eyes flick around, looking for Jason, but he's not visible. Probably listening in elsewhere, checking with building security.

“They split up,” Steph says, and Bruce cuts his speech a bit short, handing it off to the next in line, his eyes glued to the doors. “Big and ugly’s heading for you, B.”

“We’re going after the other one,” Azrael says.

“Going with Azrael,” Duke says.

Bruce is already playing out the options. If they try and snipe it, Stephanie will be on them in a moment. If they try and-

Bruce’s eyes fall to where Mayor Harrell stands, only a few feet from the glass doors.

He moves before he can think it through. He assumed he’d be the target, but there’s no actual evidence towards that. Neil’s a friend to the bats, speaking out in support even if he never committed to them the way others have, and his murder would  _absolutely_ be a blow to his reputation. If his enemies are trying to tear him down, murdering him won’t do enough. Murdering the mayor at a party that Bruce threw for him would be so much worse.

“Neil!” Bruce yells, and Neil turns just as the glass door behind him shatters inward.

It’s hard to get a look at the figure. It’s a blur of motion, not stopping for even a moment, but the broad strokes are easy enough to grasp. They’re big--easily the size of Jason, tall and broad shouldered--and dressed head to toe in black. They’re wearing a mask that’s closer to a  _cowl_ , cloth hiding every part of their features, and when they turn Bruce doesn’t see eyes, just reflective lenses.

Bruce doesn’t have time to play  _ignorant billionaire_. He reaches Neil at the same time the attacker does, and Bruce hauls Neil forward by the front of his shirt, sending him stumbling to the ground. A claw--a bracer, or actually a part of the figures arm?--whizzes through the space where his head would have been.

The only mercy is that Bruce isn’t alone. While everyone in the ballroom panics and pulls away, Stephanie zips through the shattered doors, landing squarely on the figures back, her arms going around where the neck should be.

It flails, and Bruce reaches down, grabbing Neil’s arm and hauling him upright, physically dragging the stunned and terrified man away from the thing that’s been sent to kill him.

“-got away-” He hears in his communicator, but he doesn’t have the focus to spare to listen in as he tries to put as much distance as he can between Neil and the fight.

Someone--probably a member of the building’s security staff--pulls a gun. Bruce doesn’t even get to tell them not to shoot before they’ve already opened fire. The fact that Stephanie is literally clinging to the man’s back trying to choke them out doesn’t occur to them, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The thing  _howls_  when the bullets hit it, shaking violently enough to throw Stephanie off.

It turns and flees the way it came.

“It’s fleeing!” Bruce yells into his communicator.

“Moving to intercept,” Azrael replies.

“Two, maybe three gunshot wounds to the torso,” he says, watching as Stephanie gets to her feet, going out the door after the creature.

Bruce doesn’t want to believe it’s a man. Stephanie’s as skilled a fighter as any of them, and he doesn’t understand how she could spend so long trying to choke it without any sort of a reaction. If there was armor, he’s sure she would have broken off.

“Bruce,” Neil says, his voice coming out in gasps. “You - you saved me.”

“I suspect Batgirl had more to do with you not ending up dead,” Bruce says. “We need to get you checked out.”

He throws Neil’s arm around his shoulders, helping him support his weight, and sits with him while they wait for the the medics to arrive. Michael calls in, letting him know their location, but won’t brief him until he gets there. People are already leaving, streaming out of the building as fast as they came in, even though GCPD are desperately trying to get people to stay and provide a statement.

The medic gives Neil a clean bill of health, but warns him he’ll probably have bruises on his arm and knees the following morning.

“Small price to pay,” Neil says, giving Bruce a weak smile. “No one else was injured?”

“No one else was injured,” the medic confirms. “Just a lot of frights.”

Bruce leaves Neil in the hands of his staff, excusing himself to go speak to the head of security.  _Speaking to the head of security_ really just means  _checking in with Jason_ , who's attempting to coordinate things with the police and medics. Bruce leaves him to it, heading up the street to the coordinates Azrael gave him.

He doesn’t like what he finds. All three are there, their faces pale beneath the masks, and there’s a smoking corpse on the ground.

“What the hell happened?” Bruce says, staring down at it.

The three exchange a nervous glance.

“It was me,” Michael says. “Signal and I managed to catch up with it. It took a swing at him, and I countered, and then...”

“And then it burst into flame,” Stephanie says. “We didn’t use any incendiaries, just one second it was getting pinned by Michael, and the next it was bursting into flames.

It was a man, or at least something man-like. It’s burned down to almost nothing, but the bones are still mostly in place. The smell of burning flesh is thick in the air, and Bruce sighs.

“The other figure? You said there were two.”

“Got away,” Michael confirms. “But it was different.”

“Different in what way?”

“This was...” Duke pauses for a moment, frowning as he tries to put it into words. “This one was like a wrecking ball. It was fast, and it was strong, but there was no subtlety to its movement. The only reason we didn’t notice it beforehand was because the clothes it wore were so dark, but once you spotted it, you’d have a hard time losing track of it. The other one wasn’t like that. They were smaller, and they were more like...”

“Like a ninja,” Stephanie finishes. “Graceful.”

Bruce’s brain goes to Nyssa, but the answer doesn’t make any sense. Nyssa has no reason to do this. Nyssa is an _ally_ , and he’s struggling to imagine what would make her turn on him so fast.

But the idea isn’t entirely unworkable. They might have league connections.

“We need to get this... thing down to the cave,” Bruce says with a nod to the corpse. “And we need to figure out just what we’re dealing with.”

“No one was hurt?” Duke asks, and Bruce nods.

“Batgirl kept it at bay,” Bruce confirms. “Although she nearly got shot for it.”

“Please,” Stephanie says. “Like the suit couldn’t hold up to a few bullets.”

“I’d rather not try,” Bruce says. “One of you keep a perimeter. Everyone else, pack up the body and get it back to the cave. I need to get back before I’m missed.”

He gets three nods, and Bruce turns, heading back to the party.

He isn’t surprised when Jim finds him.

“That was almost two mayors in a week,” Jim says. “Did you know this was coming?”

“I didn’t think they’d attack the party,” Bruce says. “And if they did, I assumed they’d come after  _me_.”

“No one ever goes after you,” Jim says. “Everyone’s always pretty intent on destroying everything around you first.”

Bruce hates how true it is.


	17. Chapter 17

Alfred is not a surgeon or a coroner, but he  _is_  a field medic, and of all of them he’s the most qualified to look at the body. They stand nearby, making conversation themselves as he gets to work.

Damian is  _not_  happy. He’s pointed out no less than four times that Bruce but himself in  _danger_ , and he wasn’t even around to help.

“We were there,” Azrael points out. “Things were over so fast you wouldn’t have been able to do anything without blowing your cover.”

“Same reason I couldn’t jump in,” Jason points out. “Would have looked suspicious as hell if I suddenly hopped in to assist.”

“It’s bad enough with me,” Bruce says. “I’m going to be fielding questions about my self defense experience for weeks.”

Assuming he lasts that long.

“Listen,” Stephanie says, “whatever that thing was, it was strong. I spent... what, a good minute trying to choke it out, and it would just  _not_  go down.”

“Pretty sure I’m going to have bruises from when it hit me,” Duke agrees.

“If I could have your attention,” Alfred says. “I’ve finished at least a preliminary investigation.”

Bruce has seen a lot of bodies in his life, but this one doesn’t bother him. He supposes it’s the amount of damage, so burnt that it’s barely recognizable as a human being.

The smell, though, is something else.

“I am of the opinion that our assailant was indeed human,” Alfred says. “Although I have some concerns about the particulars.”

He has a small stylus, and carefully gestures, nudging things occasionally as he goes.

“Originally I believed that the incendiary charge and the resulting fire were because of their clothes. However, after some investigation I believe that it was a joint effort. The man’s gear was quite flammable, but I believe that at least one source of the fire was actually implanted in his brain.”

“That’s... unusual,” Bruce says, staring down at the body. “Why in the brain?”

It’s a sure kill, but then so is almost any other form of  _setting someone on fire_. 

“Did he do it to himself?” Jason asks before Alfred even answers.

“Impossible to say,” Alfred says. “It might have been him, or the origin might have been external. There’s a great deal we don’t know.”

“Like identity,” Damian points out. “The jawbone’s been damaged, and dental records would be impossible to verify.”

“Correct,” Alfred says. “I’ve already collected DNA samples, but an ID assumes that our mystery man is in any of those databases.”

Which isn’t likely. Bruce isn’t going to hold his breath.

“What else do we have?” He asks.

“Bits of glass,” Alfred says, “from the lenses over his eyes. There’s metal melted into the skin of his hands. I believe Master Bruce mentioned claws? From what I can guess, he was wearing gauntlets with claws on the end.”

“Any other weapons?” Michael asks.

“A very badly damaged dagger. I would guess it was worn on the waist, although it’s hard to verify. Bog standard, the sort you could buy at any military surplus store.”

Another dead end. The bodies keep stacking up, but they’re no closer to a culprit.

“So this was a foot soldier,” Bruce says. “Meaning we’re looking at a group.” That’s the only  _real_  information they’ve gotten out of the whole encounter.

Jason rests a hand on his shoulder, and Bruce exhales.

“Anything else?” Bruce asks, and Alfred nods.

“You asked earlier why the damage would originate in the brain. I had a similar thought during my investigation. A sure kill could be managed much easier by using a larger explosive implanted in the torso, and could be done with a significantly reduced risk.”

“So why the brain?” Jason says, leaning over to inspect the damage.

“I believe the brain was chosen in order to disguise something,” Alfred says. “And I suspect I discovered at least part of what they were trying to hide.”

He fishes his stylus into a small pile beside the body, and when he lifts it up, a small metal strand hangs off the end. 

“A wire,” Bruce says.

“A circuit,” Alfred corrects. “I believe that there were more, but they were destroyed in the fire. It was only luck that prevented this one from being destroyed.”

“And any metal found in or around the skull,” Bruce realizes, “would be dismissed as being part of the face-plate that held the lenses.”

“Correct,” Alfred says.”Truthfully, I only recognized it because it was familiar.”

Bruce very abruptly realizes what he’s looking at, and his head twists up to look at Michael. He looks like he’s going to be sick, his eyes fixed on the strand of metal.

“Is... is this the order?” Michael asks, his voice raspy.

“I cannot rule it out,” Alfred says. “But I do believe that what happened here is likely to be similar to what happened to you. It is entirely possible that I am completely out of line in my assumptions, but the theory fits the facts as we know them.”

“That this was a... an Azrael 2.0?” Jason asks. “That the order’s back at it?”

“At one point,” Bruce says, “I assumed the order was a splinter off the league. It’s possible.”

“Or they’re just two independent societies,” Jason says. “But the order never seemed coordinated enough to have managed something as complicated as what happened to Michael.”

“We’re speculating too much,” Bruce says. “And getting too far off course. What matters is if we can use this. Assuming that we run into one of these foot-soldiers, what can we do about it?”

“A close ranged EMP might disable the circuitry,” Alfred says. “But it’s difficult to say without having more details. I am not sure of the method of control. It might be entirely remotely, or it might be through what they wear. Even if you do manage to disable it, it’s unclear if that would cause them to stop their attack.”

That’s an exceptionally high number of  _ifs_. If it works. If they’re being controlled. If, if, if. They don’t have enough information. They don’t have nearly enough solid facts.

“EMPs then,” Bruce says, before immediately realizing the issue. “Do we even have any?”

“We do not,” Alfred admits. “Or at least not ones I would recommend the usage of. The ones we have would knock out a room, but relatively little of our equipment is sufficiently shielded. I imagine that only the batmobile would stand up to the EMPs which we have in storage.”

“And we can’t go to Lucius for help,” Bruce says with a groan. “Because the investigation isn’t done, and they’re watching for this exact thing.”

He reaches up, rubbing at his temples and trying to calm down. This is alright, he tells himself. This is more than they had before. They have a general idea of what they’re facing. Some kind of controlled soldier with unnatural enhancements.

“How strong were they?” Bruce asks, turning his attention to Stephanie and Duke.

“Hm,” Stephanie says. “I’d say not as strong as Slade is. But stronger than you or Jason.”

“Enhanced strength,” Damian says. “Beyond what a human is naturally capable of, even with enhanced conditioning.”

“And no reaction to pain,” Bruce notes. 

That’s a lot of strengths and very few weaknesses. There’s next to nothing to exploit, and they have no idea how many of them there are. A dozen? Even if they’re not as skilled at fighting, none of that matters if they refuse to go down. He can’t even say for sure why the one they fought fled. Because it had been shot? Or because it had been called away?

Bruce’s phone rings, and every face in the cave turns to it with nearly identical expressions of dread.

“What now?” Jason says with a groan. “There’s no way there can be more.”

It’s Jim on the other end when he picks up, and Bruce winces at how winded he sounds. Like he’s been running a marathon--or sprinting back and forth dealing with things as they come up.

“I need to know who you have out in the field,” Jim says. “Right now.”

Bruce glances around the room, just to make sure he’s not imagining things.

“No one,” Bruce says. “We’re at the base, discussing what happened. No one’s on patrol.”

“Well,” Jim says. “We’re getting a string of people reporting sightings in a big way. Someone dressed all in black was standing on top of town hall ten minutes ago, looking down at the street.”

Town hall.

“Is anyone even still there?” Bruce asks, alarmed.

“No,” Jim says. “Place is empty. Custodial staff checked the roof, but didn’t find anything.”

“Alright,” Bruce says. “We’ll check it out. I assume you think it was... one of the people who attacked the party?”

“I don’t know  _what_  I think,” Jim says. “I was ready to retire on Tuesday evening and every day since then seems to have made the situation worse.”

“Alright,” Bruce says. “Thanks for the tip. We’ll look into it.”

Everyone already looks exhausted by the time he finishes the call, but he doesn’t see any other options. If their mystery assailant is out there, they don’t have any choice but to go after them.

“Everyone gear up,” Bruce says. “I’ll be coordinating from here, but the most important thing is that you need to stay near each other.”

“You cannot forbid me from going,” Damian protests. “You will be here to mind Alfred and Titus.  _I_  will go and search.”

Bruce exhales.

“I know,” Bruce says. “I don’t want you going, but we don’t have a choice. We’re undermanned.”

“Do we want to call in Dick?” Jason asks.

“We don’t have time,” Bruce says. “Every minute we delay, the trail goes colder. It’ll take him thirty minutes to reach Gotham if everything goes perfectly, and we don’t have that kind of time.”

“And he’s working,” Damian says pointedly.

“And he’s working,” Bruce agrees. “It’s just the six of us. We’re all Gotham has tonight.”


	18. Chapter 18

The team reaches city hall inside of ten minutes. Duke, Damian, and Stephanie take the batmobile so the team will have a place to fall back to, while Jason and Michael take their bikes. Bruce maps their GPS coordinates onto a map of Gotham, watching them move around. Watching the trio park, leaving the batmobile in defensive mode as they head to the rooftop while Jason and Michael park the bikes elsewhere.

“Nothing,” Stephanie confirms. “If anyone was up here, they’re gone.”

“Alright,” Jason says. “We’re going to do an outward spiral search. Everyone evenly spaced, and we rotate outward.”

It’s one of the many options that Jason’s drilled into them, and none of them complain or need any further information than that. The method is entirely self-explanatory: They’ll keep evenly spaced, never too far from each other, and be able to cover the most ground as they go.

“Report in if you find anything,” Bruce says, his eyes watching the dots.

Every five minutes, everyone reports in. There are stops and starts as people fall out of order, reporting back about false alerts and wasted time.

They’ve been at it for almost an hour, and Bruce is perilously close to calling off the search entirely when he sees Jason’s dot stop moving.

“Batman?” Bruce asks.

“Thought I saw something,” Jason says. “Going to investigate, I’ll report in.”

Bruce watches the dot swing off the search pattern, heading up the street. Everyone else stays where they are, waiting for him to report in. They’re not supposed to move until he gets back, which means a lot of sitting and waiting.

“Batman?” Bruce asks. The dot’s still moving, but he’s too paranoid to  _not_  ask for another check-in. If he could, he’d have them talking constantly just so that he knew  _exactly_  what was happening. Even with all the gear in the suits, there’s only so much he knows.

The line is silent.

“...Batman? Report in,” Bruce says again.

The dot has stopped moving. He might just be crouched and trying to be silent, but alarm bells are screaming in his head.

“Batgirl,” Bruce says. “You’re seven minutes out. Get over there and - everyone just head to Batman’s location.” He can’t risk it. If it’s a false alarm, they’ll come home anyway.

“On it,” she says, and he watches her dot spring into motion, heading towards Jasons.

Bruce bites his knuckle to keep himself from starting to babble. The line has to be clear. He has to be able to hear what’s happening. The line can’t be busy if Jason’s going to report in.

“Hello?” Says a voice.

It isn’t a voice he recognizes. It’s a young voice, a man, and entirely unfamiliar to Bruce.

There shouldn’t  _be_  an unfamiliar voice on his comm line. It shouldn’t happen.

“Who the fuck-” Stephanie starts, and Bruce cuts her off.

“Who is this?” Bruce says, unable to keep the strain out of his voice. Someone’s on the comm line. Someone’s speaking to them.

“Uh-” The voice doesn’t sound certain. There’s no confidence, no arrogance. This isn’t a villain calling in to gloat. This is something else entirely. “I don’t think my name really matters right now. I’m with Batman right no-”

“What’s his status?” Bruce does’t have time for civilian chatter. He doesn’t have time for a long winded explanation. Stephanie’s still three minutes away.

“He’s hurt real bad,” the man says, and Bruce does what he can to keep his alarm out of his voice. He tells himself to stop thinking about it. He can’t react. He can’t feel things about this. He has to deal, right then, with what’s happening.

“Support is almost there,” Bruce says.

“We don’t have time for that,” the man says. “Listen, we’re already loading him into the car. He can’t afford to wait. We’re going to - I think Gotham General’s the closest?”

Bruce hears talk in the background, but can’t pick up any details.

“Gotham General,” the man confirms. “You should - you should send someone.”

“Batgirl,” Bruce says. He isn’t feeling anything. He’s empty. An empty glass with nothing inside it, because if anything  _does_  go into it, he’s going to shatter. “Respond to the scene. Figure out what happened.”

“A big - a big guy jumped him. Batman fought him off, but it was... it was pretty bad. And then Al shot the big guy a few times, and Gert got it with her shotgun, and he went down,” the man on the other end says. “We’re taking him to the hospital.”

Bruce suspects the man’s going into shock. Bruce doesn’t have the luxury himself.

“Batgirl,” Bruce says. “Azrael. I need you two to check the scene and secure the body. Signal, Shrike, get the car and help them.”

“But what about-”

“I’m going to go to the hospital,” Bruce says. “I’ll meet them there.”

Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever got his suit on faster. He doesn’t have a choice. He can’t go as Bruce Wayne, it  _has_  to be as Batman. Alfred appears on the stairs, his face anguished. Bruce doesn’t know who called him, and he doesn’t care.

“I should drive you sir,” Alfred says. ‘”It would-”

“I can drive myself,” Bruce says. “You need to - there will be another body. You need to take it and - you need to do something with it.”

Bruce can’t remember. He can’t  _think_ , because every time he tries he thinks about Jason, hurt and alone. He thinks about the others, either ignorant or forced to deal with the thing that might have killed their brother. He thinks about  _Slade_ , blissfully ignorant to what’s happened to his son.

Bruce isn’t sure he can shut his brain down enough to function. He’s not sure he has it in him. But he doesn’t have a choice, because someone has to deal with the hospital. Someone has to be there.

Alfred pushes a bottle of water into his hands and Bruce takes it, chugging it just to wet his parched mouth.

“I’ll be back,” Bruce says. “I’ll call.”

Alfred looks as if he’ll never smile again.


	19. Chapter 19

Bruce doesn’t know how he makes the ten minute drive to Gotham General in six and a half minutes, but he does.

He does not park. He  _slides_  into place in front of the patient entrance, barely remembering to lock the car behind him. He’s sure he’s making a mess. He doesn’t really care.

There’s no needless  _who are you here for_  when Bruce clears the sliding doors. Everyone in the hospital knows who he’s there for, because everyone in the entire hospital seems to know that Batman was brought in.

People point his way. There’s a few  _holy shit_  and a bunch of  _was that Batman?_ , but Bruce doesn’t stop long enough to answer any questions.

A nurse catches him before he can kick the doors of the operating room open, physically grabbing his arms in an attempt to restrain him.

“Sir!” She says, and Bruce only barely comes back to himself, looking down at her.

She doesn’t even come up to his neck. She’s a tiny, slight thing, but she’s still physically putting herself between him and Jason.

“You can’t go in there,” she says. “It’s a sanitary area. If you go in there, you’re going to get germs everywhere. You’re going to distract the surgeons. You need to stay here.”

There’s a whispered  _holy shit_ , and Bruce turns his head to find a an alarmed looking trio staring at him. The one man’s maybe a bit older than Dick, his hair shaved into a buzz cut, with a build and mannerism that reads as  _army_. The second is in his mid-twenties, with shaggy hair and a confused look. The last is a woman, easily Alfred’s age, and she looks like she’s considering if she wants to join the nurse in wrestling Bruce away from the doors.

Each and every one of them is covered in blood. Jason’s blood.

“Uh,” the long haired one says. “Sir?”

Bruce knows the voice. It’s different not being through comms, but he knows the voice anyway, and the nurse releases him as he turns, stepping over to them.

“I’m-” The long haired one falters. “I’m Nick. This is Al, and she’s Gert.”

Bruce tries to remember their names. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to.

“What happened?” He asks, his mouth dry.

“I was smoking out on my porch,” Nick says. “And then I saw... I saw this big  _thing_  go falling off the roof. I want to say it was a really big man, but it was hard to see. And then I realized it was wrestling someone, and I recognized it. But it managed to get Batman onto his back, and started laying into him.”

“I never go anywhere without my gun,” Al says. “Not in Gotham. And I wasn’t going to just let someone wail on the Batman, so when I had a clear shot I took it. That thing took an entire clip and barely seemed  _hurt_.”

“Which is why you don’t mess around with peashooters,” Gert says, a scowl on her face. “Shotgun to the chest stopped it right then and there.”

It’s a person they’re talking about. A person under control, but a  _person_. But they don’t know that, and they don’t seem to care. Bruce imagines that most people wouldn’t.

“Batman was bleeding pretty badly,” Nick says. “He was - he’s really messed up, sir. Didn’t think we could afford to wait for an ambulance, so we loaded him into the back of Al’s car and got him here as fast as we could. Gert had the smart idea to call ahead, so they brought him right into surgery.”

He pauses, and then digs into his pocket, holding out the communicator. “This is yours, I think,” he says. “Or at least we probably shouldn’t have it.”

Bruce barely feels his own fingers as he takes it. There’s still blood on it. He thinks he’s going to be sick. Everything feels like it’s happening to someone else, someone far away, and he lets himself simply operate on autopilot, refusing to think about the situation at all.

“Thank you,” he says. “Hopefully it made a difference.”

He touches his own communicator in his ear, realizing he already should have signed in.

“I’m at the hospital,” Bruce says. “We’re just - he’s in surgery.”

“Keep us posted,” Michael says. “We just got back.”

“Father,” Damian says, entirely breaking communication protocol. “I would like to come see - to come see Batman.”

Bruce knows he was about to say Jason.

“I know,” Bruce says. “You - you can come soon. We just have to... we just have to figure this out.”

There’s things they should be doing. Someone has to investigate. And then Alfred’s voice comes through, strong and clear.

“I will handle the autopsy,” Alfred says. “And perhaps one person can stay with me for safeties sake. I think it would be best if everyone else were at the hospital, ensuring that everything is safe  _there_. I will handle contacting those of us who are not currently in Gotham.” Dick and Tim and Barb.

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “I - I’ll be here.”

Bruce knows it must take a solid ten minutes for them to get to the hospital, but to him it’s the blink of an eye. One minute he’s standing in the hall, waiting to hear word, and the next everyone’s there. He’s sitting. Damian is curled against him, trying to put on a strong face.

Stephanie doesn’t bother. She cries. Duke cries. Michael doesn’t cry, attempting to coordinate what he can. More chairs are brought out. The wing they’re in is effectively cut off from the rest of the hospital by security.

“Mr... ah, Batman?” Someone calls, and Bruce realizes they’re peeking out of the door where Jason is. They’re someone who knows what’s happening.

He stands, sliding Damian off him, and heads to them. He’s sure he looks like a mess, even with the cowl. Maybe even _more_  with the cowl. All it’s doing it emphasizing the red of his eyes.

The doctor is his age, or looks it at the very least. Starting to grey, holding a clipboard under one arm. Bruce can’t begin to imagine what they’re putting on the paperwork. Patient: Batman?

“Before anything else,” the man says. “I wanted to let you know that the other surgeons--and all the staff, really--have made an agreement about this. The cowl had to come off during surgery, but we’ve sworn ourselves to secrecy on the matter. Once he’s out, we’re going to keep his face covered for privacy reasons.”

Once he’s out.

“How -” Bruce starts, but he can’t bring himself to finish. His mouth is dry. He feels like someone’s stuffed cotton into it, and he’s having to talk despite that face.

“He’s out of surgery,” the doctor says. “He lost a lot of blood, but he got here very quickly. He has - he has even more extensive damage than he did before.” Of course they’ve seen his scars. Of course they probably think that those are the consequences of being Batman, rather than the consequences of being Robin. “Right now he’s intubated and sedated. He arrived unconscious, but we made sure he’d stay out for the surgery. His injuries are... are quite extensive, but it’s too early to say about any permanent damage.”

“He’ll live?” Bruce’s tongue is lead. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if they say no.

“Yes,” she says. “We think he’ll make it. The next few hours are critical, and we’ll be watching him very closely. We’re going to... to move him upstairs so you have a bit more privacy. Into one of the private suites.”

They’re putting him where he’d be if he’d come in as Jason Wilson-Wayne, and they don’t even know it.

Or maybe they do. Who can tell.

“No one else was hurt?” The doctor asks, glancing around the room. Her gaze settles on the trio, still soaked with blood, but they shake their heads.

“I should-” Nick starts, standing up and wincing as he does. “We should all get home.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says. This time he means it. This time it’s more than just an automatic reaction. “For... for saving him.”

Nick nods.

“Hopefully he’s... hopefully he’s okay. Gotham wouldn’t be Gotham without Batman.”

Bruce doesn’t think he’d be himself without Jason either.


	20. Chapter 20

Bruce does not remember sleeping, but in the end he sleeps. They’ve been ushered out of the ICU, up to a private wing of a floor intended only for those who are paying a great deal of money. The staff treat them like they are delicate things, prone to breaking.

Bruce feels like he’ll break if anyone so much as looks at him too hard, so he appreciates it.

The staff bring them food and drinks, filtering in and out. A few share stories. The head nurse of the floor tells them that Batman saved their nephew’s life. A doctor who stops by to check on Jason asks after Robin, and tells them a that Robin once saved them from being mugged.

Jason lies in the bed, frail and unmoving. The top of his face is hidden behind a cloth, and the bottom lies exposed, revealing the tube down his throat. What skin Bruce can see is mottled by bruises.

If Bruce hears  _all you can do is wait_  one more time he’s going to scream.

“Please eat,” Damian says, and Bruce makes himself eat the food that’s being offered. He doesn’t taste it. Minutes after he’s eaten it, he can’t even remember what it was.

Damian curls up in Bruce’s lap where he sits by the bedside and sleeps.

Michael leaves to check on Alfred after a few hours. Duke and Stephanie rest in the corner, curled up in the plush seats the hospital has brought for them, and sleep still in their costumes.

Bruce is tired, but there’s too much to do. He has to talk to Tim. He has to talk to Dick. He needs to call Jim, and he needs to...

He doesn’t want to think about Slade. He can’t do it over the phone. It has to be in person. But that means leaving the side of Jason’s bed, and he can’t.

In the end, he sits there and does nothing, cradling Damian in his arms.

“Bats,” MIchael says, waking him from his sleep. Bruce feels  _slightly_ more awake, but not by much, and he accepts the offered coffee without complaint, downing it on one go. He needs to be awake. He needs to be  _aware_.

“What happened?” Bruce says, dreading the answer.

“Nothing happened,” Michael says. “I just got back from the autopsy.”

The autopsy. Right. The one that hurt Jason was there, and they were... Alfred must have done the autopsy.

Bruce shakes his head, shifting his weight to better support Damian’s weight. He glances around, notices that Stephanie and Duke are gone, and decides to keep his voice down.

“And?”

“Most of our speculation is correct,” Michael says. “They have wiring in their brains. This one didn’t go up in flames, and from what we guessed... I think Batman tossed his communicator and used the EMP in the open street to stop it.”

Which didn’t work, obviously, and Michael seems to recognize the anger on his face.

“It stopped it from setting itself on fire,” Michael says. “So we got a more complete autopsy this time.”

“What did we find?”

“Wiring in the brain,” Michael says. “Like I said. Multiple pouches in their bodies connected to the wiring so that they can be remote-detonated, keeping anyone from doing what we just did. But...”

Michael’s lips are pressed in a thin line. He’s unhappy--not just over the situation, but over something else.

“What?”

“Bruce, they’re... they’re not all  _there_ ,” he finally says. “They’ve literally had parts of their brains removed to accommodate the circuitry and the explosives.”

Lobotomized, effectively, and Bruce knows how Michael must be feeling. That was almost him. He was almost one of them.

“They’re still alive,” Bruce says. “We need to help them if we can.”

“If we can,” Michael agrees. “But we might not have the option.”

Bruce can’t think about it. He can’t focus on anything else. There’s too many bits. Too many pieces at play.

He tries to think, but his brain throbs in his skull when he does.

“I told Robin to stay where he was,” Michael says. “But Nightwing is on his way down. I tried to tell him to stay and help Robin, but he refused.”

Bruce tries to wrack his brain, tries to figure out what he needs to do.

“Has someone talked to Jim?”

“He knows,” Michael confirms. “The whole city knows.  _Everyone_  knows that Batman was brought in to Gotham General. That’s all the news will talk about. Hospital hasn’t confirmed anything, but everyone knows.”

“I imagine they’re taking it well,” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“We’re not quite at ‘riot in the streets’ level, but we’re definitely at ‘there is one topic of conversation, and one topic of conversation only’.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Michael glances down to Damian.

“Do you want-” He starts, before changing his mind. “I’m going to take Damian to go get food,” Michael says. “Just at the cafeteria. We’ll bring you something.”

Bruce realizes that Michael was about to ask if he wanted to go with them, before deciding it wasn’t even worth asking.

He also realizes that Damian’s actually awake, and simply  _pretending_  to be asleep as he curls against Bruce’s chest.

“Nightwing should be here soon,” Michael adds, and Damian pops an eye open.

“He’s coming?” Damian asks, which confirms that he wasn’t pretending to be asleep the  _whole_  time. The talk probably woke him up.

“He’s maybe ten minutes out,” Michael confirms. “Lets go get food, alright? Your dad probably wants to stretch.”

Bruce’s legs have been nothing more than pins and needles since he woke up, and it’s a relief when Damian slides off his lap. He stands, wincing at the feel of it, and tries to stretch out.

Michael rests a hand on Damian’s shoulder, steering him out of the room. He’s sure they’ll get looks--they’re both still in costume--but there’s nothing that can be done about it. They can’t be at the hospital in civilian clothes. They can’t risk their identities. And the hospital has gone above and beyond in terms of accommodating that.

Bruce wonders who’s paying for it all, and makes a note to himself to get Lucius to have Wayne Enterprises cover it.


	21. Chapter 21

Bruce is waiting for Michael to get back with Damian and Dick when his phone rings. He expects to feel dread, but he doesn’t. He doesn't feel much of anything.

He’s is already running at his absolute emotional limit--if he goes any farther, he’ll just shut down entirely.  
  
He steps to the side of the room, ducking behind the hanging curtain to give himself a bit of privacy. It’s not like Jason will care, but the curtain does a lot to dampen the sound and avoid the risk of someone in the hall overhearing.

The number’s unlisted, so he picks up the phone, and there’s silence on the line.

“Hello?” He says, in a voice halfway between the voice he uses as Batman and the voice he uses as Bruce. It’s hard to tell which role he’s supposed to be in. Is this a Batman call or a Bruce Wayne call?

On any other day, he’d say it was a  _Bruce Wayne_  call, because it’s his personal phone, but there’s no telling anymore.

“Uhm,” the voice says. “Hi?”

The voice sound so uncertain that for a second Bruce wonders if Nick found his number. But the voice itself sounds different, and entirely unfamiliar.

“Who is this?” Bruce says.

“Sorry-” The voice cuts itself off, and Bruce wonders what the hell is happening on the other end. “Uh, is this the person who owns this line?”

It’s a bizarre question until Bruce realizes that they must be thinking of a work phone. Calling into an office might get a secretary or an intern, rather than the person in charge.

“Yes,” he confirms. “This is my number.”

“Okay, I’ll make this quick,” the man says, and Bruce is slowly coming to realize he is being driven insane by people saying that and then beating around the bush. Does no one know anything about  _brevity_?

But he keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to drag it out any longer.

“I was told to call this number and tell the person who answers a message,” the man says, and when Bruce doesn’t ask  _what message?_ he gets the hint and actually relays it. “I’m supposed to tell you that they’re moving Deathstroke out of Blackgate soon. Like, 11AM.”

“To where?” Bruce checks the time--9AM. He doesn’t have much time to figure it out.

“No idea,” he says. “That’s the whole message. And that’s all I have to say.”

He hangs up, and Bruce stares at the phone. Obviously the message comes from Slade (how he managed to coerce someone into getting a message out is immaterial at the moment), but the contents -

Something moves in the room. Bruce’s head jerks up, and he goes perfectly still, listening.

It’s not the sound that gives it away. It’s the curtain. The bottom of the curtain is moving ever so slightly, almost like the window’s open and wind is blowing in.

Bruce pulls the curtain aside and freezes.

There’s someone at Jason’s bedside. He barely even registers it before his eyes snap to Jason’s exposed throat, where sharp metal claws lie. They’re just above the skin, and only moments from tearing Jason’s throat out.

Bruce stops breathing. He can’t react. If he lunges, one twitch of the figure’s fingers could kill Jason. Even in a hospital, Bruce isn’t sure they could save him. The only way would be to take them down before they even register he’s moving, but that’s impossible now. He’s too exposed, too obvious.

The figure is staring at him.

They’re still, which lets him take in the finer details. It’s almost definitely the same costume as the thing that attacked Neil, but all the other details are different. Neil’s assailant was large and hulking, without an ounce of finesse. It was a bull through a China shop. The figure in front of him is something else entirely, slim and filled with poise. His brain rifles through familiar enough sizes and stances: Talia. Selina. Nyssa herself. It’s the pose of someone with training and skill, something that none of the others had.

This one is different.

Bruce is fairly sure that this is the one who eluded Duke and Michael at the party.

The costume is almost entirely black, with thick, flowy material. The design exists to hide the fine details, making it harder to tell exactly where their body is located at a glance. Too easy to slash at them and come away having cut only fabric, and Bruce suspects there’s actual body armor under it.

Each hand is covered in a gauntlet, tipped with sharp claws. Across the figures chest is a bandoleer filled with small daggers. Bruce is pretty sure the bandoleer, at least, is unique. He’d have noticed it if Neil’s attacker had anything like that.

But the mask is the most noticeable thing. There’s an amber lens over each eye, set into a mask of black metal. There’s gold accents leading off the top, and one along the bottom of the mask that gives Bruce the distinct impression of a bird.

Birds should be friendly to him. He’s surrounded by them. But this one is nothing but threatening, the claws only a blink away from tearing out Jason’s throat.

Bruce doesn’t move, but the figure eventually does, their head cocking to the side as if waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s frozen in place.

“I thought,” a woman’s voice said, clear and entirely unfamiliar, “that this would be a fitting way for him to die.”

The claws tap at Jason’s throat, and Bruce flinches forward, frozen once again. He doesn’t know the voice. It’s alien to him, which only leaves him with more questions than answers.

“But it’s not his time yet,” she adds, and Bruce lets himself breath just a little bit. She’s not here to kill him. She’s one of  _those_  villains, the ones who feel the need to gloat over everything, and this is her coming to tell Bruce how she’s won.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Because if she’s coming to gloat, she’ll give him the information he needs to stop her.

“And why is that?” Bruce makes himself say, fishing for information.

The woman laughs, her posture relaxed, but her talons remain at Jason’s throat.

“Oh Bruce,” she says, and Bruce knows better than to flinch. “Such a kidder. Jason’s going to stay alive because he hasn’t suffered enough yet. I’m not yet done.”

He knew that his enemy knew a lot about them, but hearing her just throw around their names like it’s nothing comes as a shock.

“You know,” she says, “I almost feel bad for you.” She shoots him a pointed look, and even though he can’t see any part of her face, he gets the impression she’s smirking at him. “I’m tearing your life down around you and you don’t even know  _why_ , do you? You have no idea who I am. You probably don’t even remember me.”

He doesn't. He has no idea who the hell she is, but the longer she stands there, the more time he spends weighing his options. Leaping across the room won’t be fast enough. He has a batarang...

He can’t risk it. Especially not if she’s not actually planning to kill Jason.

“I don’t,” he admits. It’s a gamble. He’s hoping she’ll tell him where they met, and she’s happy to oblige.

“Oh Bruce!” She says. “Let me help you out. We met once before, up on the roof of a hospital, surrounded by shadows.”

The roof of a-

“The league,” Bruce says. “You’re with the league.”

“I  _was_  with the league,” she corrects. “I’ve swapped sides. Found a better employer, one who won’t rob me of my revenge at the last possible second. Nyssa wasn’t supposed to make nice with you, you know. She was supposed to take the boy and leave.”

It’s good information. It gives him a lot. But it doesn’t tell him  _why_. Why Jason?

“Why Jason?” He says. “What did he do to deserve this?”

Her fingers trail delicately across his throat, and Bruce squeezes his hands into fists. He swears he sees a drop of blood bead up. What if she changes her mind? What if she just kills him then and there?

Then he’ll  _act_. Consequences be damned.

“Oh Bruce,” she says. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re playing the fool or if you just have no idea. I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s not about Jason, after all.”

Bruce doesn’t have time to put the pieces together. Not right then.

“But,” she says, “that doesn’t matter anyway. I have a message for you, Bruce. From my employers.” She raises her free hand to just in front of her mask, holding up in a single clawed finger as if to shush him.

“Beware the court of owls, Bruce.”

The court of  _owls_?

Bruce knows the rhyme. But it’s a rhyme, an old children’s tale, and coming up in context would make no sense if the mask on her face didn’t look so much like an owl. If the things that tried to kill Neil _and_  Jason didn’t wear the same mask.

“They’ve been around for a long time, Bruce. But the league... oh, the league made it so hard for them to move. But they’re patient, so they waited, and then you did them a great service by getting rid of the league. That gave them time to move. And they were so happy to have me, someone who knew all about you and your little family.”

The League of Assassins. The Court of Owls. The Order of Saint Dumas. Three different groups, and what little she’s given him lets him get a mental picture. The Court and the League, arising side by side. The League taking precedence and importance as Ra’s grew in power. And then the Order splitting away, taking what they knew to try something else as the Court wallowed, unable to rise from the muck, pushed down by the League.

Until the League left.

Until the Court rose.

He remembers Nyssa’s warning. Her message about movement in Gotham. Things stirring in the underworld since her departure. Had she realized what had happened? Did she realize that the two things were linked?

“Oh,” the woman says. “The look on your face is really priceless, I have to say. Watching you puzzle it all out. But I don’t think I have enough time to sit and let you work through everything, so I suppose I should give you the second part of the message.”

Bruce knows enough to know that whatever she’s going to say, he won’t like it.

“The Court thanks the Batman of Gotham for his help in ridding Gotham of the pretenders,” she says. “But the Court no longer has need for you.”

Bruce narrows his eyes.

“They want me to leave,” he says. “Or Jason dies.”

This isn’t her revenge though. This is something else. There’s at  _least_  two plans in motion, and Bruce feels like he’s underestimated the scale of the plotting happening in Gotham. This isn’t Scarecrow planning to poison the water supply, or Penguin running guns. This is something else entirely, something so far beyond that.

“No,” she says. “They want you to try. I think they’d be desperately disappointed if you just left. That would ruin things. No, they want you to try: To try and stop what they’re going to do, just so that you can fall. So that all of Gotham can know that no one can oppose the Court of Owls.”

It’s a challenge. They’re laying a challenge at his feet. If he wanted to, he could leave, but they know he’d never do that. They know he’ll rise to fight it.

“And what, exactly, is going to happen?” He says. The things they fought--their soldiers--have to be the Talons from the rhyme. But how many of them are there? The woman, and at least two more, but how  _many?_

“At midnight tonight, the Court will open the vaults. Every Talon they’ve created will take flight and purge Gotham of its corruption. Everyone who opposes the court will be slain.”

She cocks her head the other way, and Bruce knows she’s smiling.

“Ask me,” she says.

He does.

“How many Talons are there?”

“Two hundred.”

Two hundred.

The number rings in Bruce’s ears. Two hundred. Two hundred talons. One Talon was enough to fight off Duke, Stephanie, and Michael. One was enough to nearly kill Jason. And there are going to be two hundred of them flying through Gotham’s skies, raining death on anyone and everyone who would stand against the Court.

Even if each Talon only killed one person, that’s still two hundred dead.

And he doubts they’ll stop at one each.

Two hundred Talons at midnight. It’s after 9AM. He has fifteen hours.

“I look forward to seeing how you do,” she says, and then darts backwards towards the window.

Bruce doesn’t go after her. He can’t possibly catch her, and he can’t leave Jason unguarded. He’s effectively unharmed, but Bruce’s heart won’t stop racing.

Two hundred Talons, descending on Gotham.


	22. Chapter 22

Bruce no longer has time. Every second is a second he isn’t taking steps to prevent the mass-slaughter of every person in Gotham with a bit of good in them. He grabs his phone, dialing the manor.

“Master Bruce?” Aflred asks.

“I need you to do an emergency call,” Bruce says. “Everyone.”

“Would that be every-”

“Everyone,” Bruce says. “Dick, Tim, everyone who’s ever worn a mask with us.”

“Is everything-”

“We don’t have time Alfred,” Bruce says. “Everyone.”

He waits on the line as Alfred sets it up, and then, simultaneously, every ally they have has their phone ring.

It’s a cacophony of  _hellos?_  as people start picking up the phone. He catches Tim and Barbara, Dick and Michael. There’s a few voices he doesn’t recognize, ones that he’s sure are Dick’s new trainees.

“Quiet,” he snaps, and the line goes silent. Everyone on the call recognizes his voice.

“I know who’s been targeting us,” he says. “The Court of Owls. The creatures they’re using are called  _Talons_. They were once people, but they can't be considered that any longer.”

They’re the living dead. Even if they were taken away from the Court, what then? They still have parts of their brain missing.

If there were one or two, he would try and save them. He would try and spare them, to see if they could be saved. Not to the lives they had before, if the even had lives, but to  _something_.

He no longer has that choice. They have to be considered already dead, because he can’t risk anyone hesitating and letting the slaughter continue.

“They are stronger than a human should be. They do not feel pain. They will not stop. They are being controlled, but we don’t know who’s behind it.”

“Oh god,” Dick says. “What’s happening?”

“In fifteen hours, at midnight, the Court is going to release two hundred Talons into Gotham. They will be targeting everyone who the Court considers an enemy. Every politician is at risk. Everyone who’s ever stood up against crime. The death toll will be unimaginable.”

Dick, Michael, and Damian burst in the hospital room door, but Bruce ignores them. He doesn’t have time.

“Each of you has a choice to make,” he says. “About whether you want to leave or if you want to stay. But you needed to know. Now you do.”

“What - what are we going to do?”

Bruce doesn’t recognize the voice. They sound young and unsure, and Bruce wonders if he’s just thrown a teenager into the deep end.

“No one will blame you for fleeing to--or staying in--Bludhaven,” he says. “We need to alert who we can. Get people out.”

He doesn't know if it’s going to work.

“I’ll handle the mayor,” he says. He doesn’t care if he has to unmask. “Everyone else needs to do what they can. I don’t have the time to coordinate.”

“I’m going to coordinate from here,” Barbara says. “Unless someone objects.”

No one does. Jason’s the one they’d have turned to, and he’s out of the picture. There’s no way he’ll be able to stand, let alone fight.

Bruce reaches out, resting his hand on Jason’s arm, and reminds himself that Jason is still alive. There’s still time. He can go to the mayor. He can evacuate the city. They can rally the police.

“I need to go,” he says. “Discuss among yourself.”

He hangs up, and Damian’s there at his side immediately.

“Where are you going?” He says, and Bruce is already dialing his phone, signaling for silence.

“Hello?” Says the voice on the other end.

“Martin Joseph,” Bruce says, dropping into his Batman voice. “Gotham is in grave danger, and I need your assistance.”

“Of course,” he says, and Bruce is sure he just sat up straighter. “I haven’t forgot what you did for me.”

“This isn’t about what I did or didn’t do for you.” Bruce says. “I need you to release a prisoner into my care immediately.”

He’s sure Martin’s imagining the nightmares that come with that.

“People will die,” Bruce says. “You have a chance to stop that.”

“Who?”

“Deathstroke,” he says. “Slade Wilson.”

He’s not clear what name Slade’s officially under, and he can’t risk any confusion.

Martin clears his throat.

“I can’t,” he says.

Bruce grinds his teeth.

“Why not?”

He needs Slade. He  _needs_  Slade. Slade’s the only person who can reliably take down Talons, and he’s not going to help if he’s behind bars.

“The - the military already took him. They’re loading him for prisoner transfer right now. I couldn’t get him away without explaining things, and ‘Batman wants him’ isn’t going to cut it.”

“Where are they going?” Bruce asks immediately.

“Confidential,” Martin says. “Somewhere north of us. I think they said they were going to be going up the coast.”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

He hangs up before Martin can say another word.

“Are you going to get Slade?” Damian asks. His tone is somber.

“Yes,” he says. “You can’t come with me. You need to stay with the others, and help where you can.”

Damian doesn’t protest. He seems to understand how important things are, and how little time there is.

Bruce calls the manor again.

“Yes?” Alfred asks.

“I need you to dispatch the Batwing,” Bruce says. “Just send it directly to the hospital.”

“Right away, sir,” Alfred says. “And if I can, sir, please give Mr. Wilson my greetings.”


	23. Chapter 23

Bruce was sure that there was a line about acceptable behavior somewhere. A line about what did and didn’t go too far as a costumed vigilante.

Bruce is also fairly sure he’s crossed it as he shoots across Gotham in the Batwing. He rarely flies it. It draws too much attention. And in broad daylight, it draws a  _lot_  of attention. Even with the camouflage on the underbelly it’s not enough. People will notice.

Bruce no longer cares. He’s fourteen hours from everyone in Gotham being in danger of being murdered by creatures they have no chance against. Subtlety no longer matters.

Apparently he’s not the only one who’s had that thought, because Alfred’s packed the Batwing with both the Gotham Knight armor  _and_  a small armory.

He spots the convoy not long after it’s left Blackgate. Ahead of schedule, but it works for his purposes. There’s two cars--unmarked but still obvious--on each end, and an unmarked white van.

There’s no markings. If the military were taking him, there’d be markings all over. But there’s nothing.

Bruce can no longer let himself believe, even for a second, that this wasn’t part of some massive plan.

The Batwing drops out of the sky, losing altitude until it’s flying just ahead of the convoy. Then Bruce sets it to autopilot and drops through the hatch.

He hits the hood of the front car hard enough to dent it inward. He’s sure he’ll feel that in the morning, but that assumes he’ll  _have_  a morning. He’s flying high on adrenaline, and isn’t going to stop.

“You can hand him over,” Bruce says. “Or I’ll take him.”

The man pulls a gun, which gives Bruce all the answer he needs. He punches through the windshield, grabbing the steering wheel and yanking it to the side. The car spins out, slamming into the center barrier, and Bruce leaps as it starts to turn, his cape snapping out into a glider as he lets the momentum carry him into the front of the truck.

He slams into it hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but he’s already moving, flipping onto the driver’s side door and punching through the glass.

The driver is screaming as the man in the passenger seat levels his shotgun.

His gear is going to hold up to handgun fire, but a shotgun is out of the question, so he jumps, catching the back of the truck with his gauntlet.

The truck’s durable. But it’s made to keep prisoners  _in_. It’s meant to stand up to a  _light assault_  at best.

Batman is not a light assault.

He sprays explosive foam on the outside of the door, leaning away to blow it. There’s only one car behind him--he has no idea where the other one went, but suspects it got caught when he crashed the first one--and the man in the passenger seat is a terrible shot. He’s not coming anywhere close to hitting him, but Bruce turns away anyway, making sure he doesn’t get lucky with a shot to the face.

He blows the door, sending it flying backwards. It hits the car behind them, and sending it spinning off to the side. He’s pretty sure he’s just caused a massive pileup, but he doesn’t have time for that.

“Are you  _kidding_  me?” Slade says as Bruce slips in the open door. He’s the only prisoner in the transport, and when Bruce looks around he spots two guards, unconscious on the ground. Slade’s standing, his arms locked up to the elbow in a massive metal cuff, and his ankles are chained together more traditionally. “What happened to ‘no escape attempts’?”

“We’re past that,” Bruce says. “I’ll explain on the way.”

He cracks the chain on Slade’s ankles, and uses a small amount of explosive foam to crack the arm cuff open. On anyone else, he wouldn’t risk it. On Slade? Any damage will just regenerate, and getting him out of it is more important.

Slade clears his ankles once his arms are free, glancing up as he does.

“What’s the plan?” He says. 

“Batwing’s going to pick us up,” Bruce says.

It isn’t the first time he’s leapt off a moving vehicle onto a ladder dangling from the Batwing, but it  _is_  the first time he’s done it with someone else.

Bruce goes first, catching the ladder and heading up it. He wonders for a moment why the driver hasn’t thought to  _pull over_ , and then decides he’s probably under orders: Drive, no matter what.

Well, he’s certainly driving.

Slade reaches the cockpit, hauling the ladder up behind him without being told.

“Alright,” he says as Bruce slides into the command seat. “How bad is it?”

Bruce doesn’t think he has words for how bad it is.

“At midnight, a secret society is going to release two hundred murderous super soldiers onto Gotham to kill everyone who they think might oppose them.”

Slade, for once, doesn’t have a quippy response. Bruce spares a glance over his shoulder, watching his eyebrows furrow together as Bruce sets the plane to autopilot, spinning around in his seat.

“It’s bad, Slade,” he says. “This is... probably the worst it’s ever been.”

He can see Slade trying to work the pieces all out, so Bruce tries to give him more.

“The Court of Owls used to be opposed by the League of Assassins. When I drove the League out of Gotham, the Court rose up to take their place. They consider themselves the true rulers of Gotham, and they plan to make an example of us. They’ve told us all this is going to happen so that we’ll fight it, because they think it’ll send a better message if the people of Gotham watch us fail.”

Bruce makes himself take a breath. He has to convey so  _much._ There’s so many details. And he  _knows_  he’s intentionally avoiding talking about Jason. He doesn’t want to tell Slade. He doesn’t want him to know.

“Every Talon is a half-braindead super-soldier. They’re not as fast or strong as you, but they’re durable and simply ignore any damage they take. They’re being controlled by the league, including a woman who wears their costume. She knows who we are, and she seems to have some kind of... grudge against us.”

He doesn’t say  _against Jason_.

Slade is silent, his eyebrows furrowed. He looks much the same as he did before, his brief stint in prison not having weighed on him at all. He doesn’t know, Bruce knows. If he knew, he’d be acting differently.

“They tried to kill the new mayor,” Bruce says. “And then -” He has to say it. He has to make himself say it. “One of them went after Jason.”

Slade’s eye snaps up. Bruce feels like Slade is digging a hole in him just with a look. His expression is  _ferocious_.

“ _What happened to Jason?”_

He’s so desperate. Bruce wants to say he’s fine. But he can’t lie.

“He’s alive,” he says. “But he’s hurt. They almost killed him, but some people came to his defense. They saved his life. He’s at the hospital.”

“We need to-”

“ _Slade_ ,” Bruce says, and he hopes that Slade can understand how anguished he is. He reaches up, literally pulling the cowl back. “Slade. I know. I know you want to see him. But right now he’s safe. They’re not going after him. And we need to figure out what we can do. I need to get to the mayor. I need to get him to evacuate Gotham while we still can.”

Bruce has never seen Slade look  _anguished_  like this. Like he’s being torn in two. Bruce reaches out, taking Slade’s hands in his own.

“Slade,” he says. “I know you want to be with him. I wish you could. But if you don’t help, people are going to die.”

Slade flips his hands around, squeezing Bruce’s hands.

“Bruce,” he says. “You need to take Jason and leave.”

The suggestion is so confusing that Bruce can’t even process it.

“Leave?” He says.

“You need to get everyone. Alfred, Tim, Stephanie, everyone. And leave. Get out of Gotham.”

Bruce wonders if he’s hallucinating.

“What?” He says.

“Bruce,” Slade says, more serious than Bruce thinks he’s ever seen him before. “They won’t evacuate.”

“What?” Bruce says. He feels like he’s not understanding anything Slade’s saying. Like he’s missing something.

“Bruce, who benefited when Deathstroke killed the mayor of Gotham?”

Bruce scrapes his memory. The murder of the mayor feels so long ago. Like it happened a lifetime ago. Too much has happened. But for Slade, it has to be present: That’s what he knows. It’s the last thing he really was a part of.

“The Court?” Bruce says, but he knows it’s the wrong answer. “You wouldn’t be able to help us from prison.”

“Yes,” Slade says. “But why the mayor?”

Bruce understands, the answer sliding into place with a sickening sensation.

“The new mayor,” Bruce says. “Who gets his position without any fight. Who gets sworn in with half the scrutiny he should get.”

Neil. Neil, who was only attacked  _once_ , just in time for Bruce to save him. Who’s assailant fled at the first resistance. Neil, who offered a sympathetic shoulder and was so, so accommodating.

He doesn’t want to believe it, because believing it means that the most important thing to do--getting the city evacuated--is impossible.

“If there’s a secret society launching a massive plan to take control of Gotham,” Slade says, “then you have to look at who recently gained power.”

The mayor. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut. They didn’t have a chance. Not really. But at least with Mayor Harrell on their side they had a  _chance_. Even with Jim on their side, it would be an uphill battle. It would take hours to get approval. Hours to convince anyone else. Hours they don’t have. 

The city’s going to be full when the Talons take flight. No one will have evacuated. And Neil Harrell will no doubt survive an attempt on his life, saving himself and the people around him, and be hailed a hero.

And then the Gotham will belong to the Court of Owls.

“I know you want to help,” Slade says. “But you need to leave. You need to get far, far away from here. I’ll stay and do what I can, but you need to take Jason and leave.”

They don’t have a chance. They have so little chance that Slade sees the writing on the wall. He wants them to leave, to get away before the slaughter starts.

Dick. Duke. Tim. Stephanie. Damian. Slade. Michael. Even if Tim comes back. Even if Dick brings everyone he’s ever even thought about training... That’s still not even a dozen people.

They can’t do it.  _He_  can’t do it. He can’t stop two hundred super soldiers from slaughtering everyone he cares about. He can’t save Gotham.

Slade wants him to give in. To accept it, and to save himself. To save the people he loves and cares about.

And then Bruce  _understands_. He knows, with absolute clarity, what he needs to do.

He can still save Gotham.


	24. Chapter 24

Bruce spins his seat, hands flying to the Batwing’s controls. There’s no point in going to city hall. He doesn’t have time to deal with Harrell. Convincing him is pointless. Even if he says he’ll do it, he’ll simply claim he’s being delayed until the last possible moment.

“Your suits in the back,” Bruce says. “Get on comms and let Barbara fill you in on the rest.”

“What?” Slade says. “How did we go from  _please leave the city_  to  _suit up_?”

“I know how I can still save Gotham,” he says. “But I need you to do what I can’t. You’re the only person in the city who can take a Talon on directly. Go to Jim. Kick the door in if you have to.  _Make_  him treat the situation with all the seriousness it deserves.”

He’s sure Barbara’s already told Jim. But there’s a difference between his daughter telling him things via phonecall, and Slade Wilson kicking his door in to tell him he needs to get  _every_  officer ready to go.

“Bruce,” Slade says, and he feels Slade reach up, literally grabbing the arm of the chair to spin him around. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” Bruce says. This is his only chance. His one chance. Even if it means giving up what he’s held so dear. “I need you to trust me.”

Slade stares at him for a moment that seems to last forever, and then nods.

“I trust you,” he says. “Even if I think your plan is probably stupid or crazy or both.”

“Both,” Bruce says, spinning back around. “I’m dropping myself off at the manor. The plane works primarily on autopilot-”

“Bruce,” Slade interjects. “I know how to fly a plane.”

“Oh,” Bruce says. He guesses that makes it a bit easier.

He lets Slade into the seat, already suited up in his Gotham Knight gear. He’s expecting that to be it, but before they reach the manor Slade has one more thing to say.

“Bruce,” Slade says. “Don’t die.”

Bruce nods and drops out of the Batwing.

It’s not the most subtle thing he’s ever done. But he doubts anyone will notice enough to make the connection.

Even if they do, he hopes they’ll keep their silence.

Bruce doesn’t have time to chat with Alfred as he heads into the manor, stripping out of the batsuit and pulling on an  _actual_  suit. He makes a vague effort at combing his hair as he heads back down to the garage, finding Alfred loading the batsuit into the trunk without even being prompted.

“I imagine you’ll need this, sir,” Alfred says. “And good luck.”

Bruce slips into the driver’s seat and pulls out.

He listens to the comm chatter as he drives. Everyone has something to do. Bruce is pretty sure Slade’s about to land the Batwing directly in front of GCPD headquarters. But after a bit he simply tunes it out. He can’t focus on that.

He lets his mind run back through what he knows. He’s sure he’s missed things. The Court’s been operating in his blind-spots, taking advantage of them to their own ends. Their entire scheme has been about misdirection, counting on the fact that his focus would be too intensely on Slade’s arrest to consider the other implications of Mayor Hady’s murder. They let him chase down dead leads, confident in the knowledge that there was nothing to find. They’ve exploited his weaknesses with brutal efficiency.

The woman is important. She’s not in charge, but she’s the face of the organization. Important enough that they sent her to speak on their behalf. But she’s not quite  _one_  of them. She’s an outsider, someone recruited by the Court because of her knowledge of him and his family.

He just doesn’t know what the connection is. If she was with the League, she could know their names. But she knows more than that. She has a grudge. The League robbed her of her  _revenge_  by letting them live.

No. Bruce tries to think. He’s made an assumption that doesn’t belong.

She let Jason live because  _he hadn’t suffered enough_.

“Knight,” Bruce says, popping his comm back in. He doesn’t bother with a private channel.

“What?”

“The woman who’s working with the Court,” he says. “She was with the League before, with the rebels. She was Nyssa’s second in command up on the roof when we faced them down.”

“Hold on,” Tim says, cutting in. “The one who stuck around and was like... glaring us down?”

“That one,” Bruce says. He should have realized before. Should have spent more time noticing how strange her behavior was rather than letting himself get caught up in feeling relieved that the encounter ended with no bloodshed. “She said this was about revenge. She said she wasn’t going to kill Batman because he hadn’t suffered enough yet. But I don’t think she was talking about  _him_. I think she was talking about  _you_.”

Slade makes a small noise.

“I have a lot of enemies,” Slade finally says. “It’s a long list.”

Bruce tries to remember every single thing she said. A lot of taunting. That they’d met. That she worked with the League and knew Nyssa before she defected. She’d even  _said_  it wasn’t about Jason, and he’d missed it.

Bruce weaves aggressively through traffic, chewing on his lip as he tries to remember. What else had she said? About the court. His part in letting them rise to power. That she’d be watching. That-

“Knight,” Bruce says, only just catching himself before he says  _Slade_. It probably doesn’t matter. The comms are  _probably_  secure. But he can’t risk them not being secure. He can’t risk someone listening in. He has to carry out his plan as silently as possible and avoid any possible chance of someone catching on.

Bruce sails past Gotham city limits.

“She said that the perfect way for Batman to die would be with his throat cut.”

She knows about Joseph. It’s personal.

“It’s definitely you,” Bruce says. “This is about you.”

He knows it means something. He knows there’s importance to it. But he’s missing the last piece of the puzzle.

“I’ll try and think,” Slade says. “But I’ve got no goddamn idea.”

Bruce lets himself tune the rest of the conversation out, and focuses on his driving. He’s a good driver, but the way he drives in a  _car_  and the way he drives in the  _batmobile_  are completely different. He leans more into the latter, weaving between cars. He’s sure he’s leaving a lot of angry people behind him, but Gotham Police have better things to do. There’s the pileup on the north end of Gotham they’ll be busy with. He’s sure traffic is a nightmare.

As Bruce heads up the coast, passing Bludhaven, he wishes he’d just taken the boat. The boat would be faster. But the boat leaves him without a  _car_ , and he needs a car for his plan. 

Bruce feels himself sliding out of focus as he drives. He’s almost on autopilot, pushing past the speed-limit in an attempt to cut minutes off the trip.

It’s just after three when Bruce reaches Metropolis city limits.


	25. Chapter 25

He can’t risk getting pulled over, so he cuts his speed. He lets the car navigate him, and it takes another ten minutes for him to arrive, pulling into guest parking in front of the Daily Planet.

He takes a moment to check his appearance in the mirror, deciding that his description is best described as  _shabby_. The best he can hope for is  _ruffled_ , but it’s definitely coming more on the side of  _unwashed_.

He hopes no one’s going to look at him too closely, sliding out of the car and straightening his suit.

He doesn’t have as much sway in Metropolis as he does in Gotham, but he’s still  _disgustingly rich_ , and that opens a lot of doors.

Bruce heads straight to the receptionist, leaning over the desk and giving her his most charming smile.

“Hello,” he says.

 She looks up and double takes. Even in Metropolis, he’s recognizable. He’s also very hard to miss.

“...Mr. Wayne?” She says, in the exact tone of voice  _every_  confused secretary gives him when he shows up without any sort of notice.

“I apologize for not having an appointment,” he says. “I was hoping to speak to a reporter here, if that’s alright with you.”

She stares up at him, confused, and then her eyes slowly drift down to the schedule on the screen in front of her.

“I... is this a... are you here for an interview?”

“I have a story for them, yes,” Bruce says.

“Mr. Troupe-”

“If possible,” Bruce says. “I’d love to speak to Mr. Kent or Mrs. Lane.”

The secretary stares up at him, confused, and then glances back down to her schedule.

“I... think Mr. Kent is available?” She says. Bruce suspects she means  _he’s working on a story, but it’s probably less important then whatever has brought Bruce Wayne to Metropolis_.

She’s right.

She takes a moment to look over whatever’s on her computer, and then twists her head around, scanning the room.

“Jimmy?” She calls, and a young boy--around Duke’s age--looks up in response.

“Could you take Mr. Wayne up to see Clark? Tell him he can use Mr. White’s office if he wants.”

Jimmy looks at Bruce like he has two heads, making no real attempt to hide his staring. He’s slack-jawed as he leads Bruce into the elevator.

“So,” he says. “Is this... uh, important?”

“Very,” he says. “But I’m afraid I can’t say much more than that.”

“Maybe you should go to Lois,” Jimmy suggests. “Clark's a bit... unassuming. Lois is more of the go-getter type.”

“I’m sure Clark will do just fine.”

Either will do, but getting Clark cuts out the middle man.

His first sight of Clark Kent is not what he expects. He’s hunched over a desk, typing away on a computer, his tongue protruding slightly from his mouth as he focuses on his work.

He looks normal. Unassuming.

“Clark?” Jimmy says. “This is Mr. Wayne. He said he had a story for you. Janice says you can use Perry’s office if you want.”

Clark stares up at him, his face plastered with a look of mild confusion, like he can’t quite figure out why Bruce is there. Bruce suspects there’s a lot more to it than that.

“Of course,” Clark says, standing up and offering his hand. “Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet. I don’t think we’ve met...?”

“No,” Bruce says. “We haven’t. I met Mr. White twice before, though.”

Jimmy leaves--still obviously sneaking looks at them--and Clark gestures for Bruce to follow as he heads back to the elevator. It takes all of Bruce’s self control to keep his mouth shut until they’ve reached Perry White’s office.

 “Mr. Kent,” Bruce says. “I’m not going to waste your time. I am on a... a very tight schedule, so I’ll get right to it.”

He doesn’t sit down. He stays where he is, shielded by the shades on the office. It’s not as much security as he’d like. There might be cameras. He doesn’t have a choice.

“I know you’re Superman.”

Clark’s eyebrows go up, his reaction one of perfect confusion. He’s impossible to read anything off. There’s no tells. No signs. It’s like he’s  _actually_  confused by the claim.

For just a second, Bruce wonders if he’s wrong. If he’s got it wrong.

He can’t be. He pushes the thought away. If he’s wrong, so many people are going to die. He can’t let himself think it for even a moment.

“I’m sorry?” Clark says.

“I’m here because you’re Superman,” Bruce says. “Because you aren’t human. Because you’re something  _beyond_  human, with capabilities we can only dream of.”

Bruce reaches into the inner pocket of his suit, drawing out a batarang. He rests it in his palm, holding it out for Clark to see. He still just looks  _confused_.

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” he says. “We’ve never met, but I operate in Gotham as the vigilante Batman, the same way you operate in Metropolis as the vigilante Superman. Our paths have never crossed. We have our own territories. Our own needs. But I’m here because that has to stop today.”

Clark’s eyebrows scrunch together.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

Bruce tries to stab him with the Batarang. It’s fast, the very limits of his skill. He flips the batarang up into a grab position, driving it towards Clark’s torso.

Clark catches his wrist before he’s even halfway there. Clark’s so  _fast_  he didn’t even see it, and his grip is crushing. Bruce doesn’t doubt for a second that Clark could shatter his wrist with no more effort than it would take Bruce to open a door.

“Good,” Bruce says. “Then we can drop the pretense.”

Clark frowns at him and releases Bruce's wrist.

“This isn’t safe,” he says. “Anyone could walk in-”

“Clark,” Bruce says. He should call him Mr. Kent, but he’s trying to humanize him. Trying to make Clark  _relate_  to him. He needs that if he wants his help. “I don’t have time for safety or secrecy. I know we’ve always kept to our own areas. I know it’s an unspoken rule, because the moment we step outside our areas it becomes a  _state_  problem and then a  _federal_  problem. But the people of Gotham are in danger, and that danger is something so far beyond what I am capable of handling. I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

“Mr. Wayne-”

“Bruce,” he corrects.

“Bruce,” Clark says after a moment’s hesitation. “This is a lot all at once. Metropolis-”

“I know Metropolis is your home,” Bruce says. “But Metropolis can handle itself tonight. Gotham can’t.”

Bruce doesn’t think it’s so much Clark not wanting to help as it is Clark feeling overwhelmed. It’s not an ‘of course I’ll help you’. It’s more of a ‘I’m not sure I can’.

So Bruce has to use the nuclear option.

“You have a son,” Bruce says, and Clark’s expression darkens. “Jon Kent. He’s eleven years old. He makes you happy in ways you have a hard time expressing.”

He might be projecting a little bit, but he hopes that helps it get through.

“I have four sons,” Bruce continues. “The youngest is named Damian. He’s thirteen years old. Right now he’s putting his life in danger to try and keep hundreds of people from being murdered. He and  _everyone_  in Gotham is in danger.”

He has to convince Clark. He doesn’t have any other choice. If he can’t get Clark’s help, there’s no chance at all.

Bruce drops down to his knees, falling down onto his hands.

“Please,” he says. “Please help me save them.”

Whether it’s the mention of their sons or the sight of Bruce Wayne groveling in front of him that convinces him Bruce will never know.

“Tell me what’s happening,” Clark says. “I’ll help.”


	26. Chapter 26

Bruce picks himself back up. There’s a chance. There’s  _hope_.

“A group known as the Court of Owls is preparing to launch an attack on Gotham,” Bruce says. “They’re going to unleash two hundred super-soldiers with enhanced strength, speed, and durability into Gotham to kill anyone who they feel would oppose them.”

“How enhanced?” Clark asks.

“Far weaker than you,” Bruce says. “But stronger than any human. Strong enough to send a human flying with a good blow. They are... partially-lobotomized humans. They have wiring in their brains controlling them. We considered an EMP as an option to disable them, but all it does is prevent them from getting new orders. It  _helps_ , but not enough. If you stop them, they self-immolate. The problem we face is that damage isn’t enough. If you shoot a human, they stop what they’re doing. If you shoot a Talon, they don’t even flinch. They don’t register the damage their bodies are taking.”

“Can they be saved?”

Bruce’s heart aches.

“I don’t know,” he says. “They could never go back to being normal people,” Bruce says. “They’ve lost too much brain matter for that.”

“Isn’t one of Batman’s rules that he doesn’t kill...?” Clark asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I can’t afford to let hundreds of people die because we  _might_  be able to help them enough that they can continue living,” Bruce says. “They’ll never be able to function on their own. They’ll never have lives. I’m not sure that can count as living. The best I can do is stop more of them being made and bring the people who did this to justice.”

It feels like a cheat. But there’s no other choice. He’s already run out of options. Clark gives him a chance, but that chance won’t last if he spends time trying to save them all. It’s just not possible.

“Who’s their leader?” Clark asks.

“A woman,” Bruce says. “I don’t yet know her name. She has... some kind of insane revenge fantasy going on. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

“No offense,” Clark says, “but I’ll leave that one to you.”

Bruce sits down rather suddenly. He feels like his legs are jelly, unable to hold his weight, and Clark makes a distressed noise.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Bruce says. “I just need a minute.”

“Have you... when was the last time you slept?”

Bruce bites back a  _I can sleep when I’m dead_.

“This morning a bit. It’s been a long day. My son - one of my son’s in the hospital. A talon mauled him.”

“Did you eat?”

“A muffin,” Bruce says. He doesn’t remember if it was actually a muffin. He  _thinks_  it was a muffin.

“When?”

Bruce doesn’t remember. Sometime in the very early morning. Clark frowns at his lack of response.

“You need to eat,” he says. “You’re not going to do anyone any good if you’re dropping mid-battle from exhaustion.”

“I don’t have time to eat,” Bruce says. “It’s a three hour drive with no traffic, and there’s going to be traffic if we leave right now.”

“Bruce,” Clark says. “I can fly.”

He can fly.

Bruce wonders how the hell he forgot that.

“Oh,” he says.

“I assume you know where I live?”

“Yes,” Bruce says.

“I’ll ask you how you found all this out when this is all over and done with,” Clark says. “Head to my house, and I’ll meet you there.”

Bruce almost protests, but when he thinks about it, it makes sense. He needs to leave his car  _somewhere_ , and Clark’s driveway makes more sense then the daily planet parking lot. It also gives him a place to change into his suit without having to try and change in his car.

“...Alright.”

“Kind of expected you to fight me on that,” Clark says. “I’ll met you there. Try not to get pulled over for speeding.”

Bruce pulls on his  _billionaire Bruce Wayne_  persona on the way out. He apologizes to the secretary for coming in so suddenly, gives Jimmy a wave as he gawks at him, and heads out to his car.

Bruce finds that his hands are trembling as he finally gets them on the wheel. His brain’s running on a loop, just  _there’s a chance_  over and over. He has Clark. Clark will help. Clark is faster and stronger and can stop the Talons before they kill everyone.

There’s a chance.

Bruce knows what the building looks like. He saw pictures when he did his research back when  _the Superman_  first became a thing. Back when he first figured out his identity. But seeing it in person feels different. He pulls into the guest parking for unit 394, and collects the bag with the batsuit in it from the trunk.

Hopefully someone doesn’t steal his car. If they do? He’s not sure he can muster enough of a response to pretend to care.

Bruce is expecting Clark when he knocks at the door. Clark  _said_  he’d meet him there. But it’s not Clark that opens the door, it’s his wife Lois, who looks at him with equal parts recognition and confusion.

“Mr. Wayne?” She says, baffled.

“Sorry,” he says. “Is he not back yet?”

She looks even more confused.

“Clark?” She says. “He’s at work.”

“Sorry!” Comes Clark’s voice from inside the house, and he hustles over to the door. “Sorry, there was a car crash on the way.”

Lois glances between the two of them as Clark ushers him in, her confusion obvious.

“Hold on,” she says. “What  _exactly_  is happening here?”

“I apologize, Miss Kent-”

“Miss Lane,” she corrects. “I wasn’t giving up my professional reputation just to take his name.”

“Miss Lane,” Bruce says, undeterred. “My name-”

“Is Bruce Wayne,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “I’m not asking who you  _are_. I know who you  _are_. I want to know why you’re suddenly in my house, acting like you’ve known Clark for years.”

“Honey,” Clark says. “He’s Batman.”

Lois’s eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically fly off her face.

“He’s  _what_?”

“Batman,” Bruce says. “I’m aware of your husband’s identity.”

“Mom!” Comes a small voice. “There’s a fancy car parked in-”

Jonathan Kent stops in the front doorway, the door half open, staring at the three of them. He’s wearing a backpack, which answers the  _what he’s doing right then_ , but seeing him is killing Bruce. Damian’s out there fighting. This is too normal, too domestic.

“We should go soon,” Bruce says.

“Lois,” Clark says. “Can you reheat some leftovers for Mr. Wayne? I’m not letting him leave the house until he’s eaten something.”

“Please,” Bruce says. “Bruce is fine. I don’t-”

“You do need,” Clark corrects. “And taking ten minutes while I explain to my wife what’s happening is not going to be the make or break.”

He pauses, looking Bruce up and down. “And you should take a shower before you change. It’ll help wake you up.”

Bruce suspects he’s starting to smell, and that Clark would like a bit of privacy.

“Sure,” he says, lacking the energy to argue. “I’ll just-”

“I’ll show you!” Jon says, darting down the hallway.

The shower is heaven. The ten minutes he takes to clear off the grime might very well be some of the best minutes of his life. The showers a bit small and the water pressure isn’t great but Bruce doesn’t  _care_.

The shower keeps him from embarrassing himself.

Bruce feels alive again when he steps out of the shower, toweling off and starting to dress into the batsuit. For a brief moment he wonders if it’s okay to be so blatant about things in front of such a young child, and then decides that Jon Kent can be trusted. He keeps his  _father’s_  secret, after all, and he’s sure Clark will impress upon him the need for secrecy.

Or Lois will anyway.

Jon’s waiting for him in the hallway when he emerges, his eyes widening, his mouth making a little  _o_. He seems shocked to see the Batman, and Bruce is alarmed when Jon simply  _lifts off the ground_ , floating up to eye level to inspect the suit.

“Wow,” he says. “You really are Batman!”

He turns, floating towards the kitchen, and Bruce follows.

“No flying in the house,” Lois admonishes. 

“But mom!” Jon protests. “We have Batman here!”

“I think it’s fine,” Clark says. “It’s just for one day.”

Lois frowns at Clark, sliding a plate of what looks like homemade lasagna in front of Bruce.

“Eat,” she says. “Clark says you haven’t eaten all day.”

Bruce doesn’t protest, just grabs the fork and starts to dig in. If he takes five minutes to eat, there won’t be an issue. Clark’s right--nothing good will happen if he gets faint from hunger mid-fight.

“I expect you to bring my husband back in one piece,” Lois says pointedly. Bruce can’t answer between mouthfuls, but does nod as if he has any say in the matter. Bruce is under no illusions about which of the two of them would win in a brawl.

“And your son,” Clark adds. “Jon, go get your suit.”

Jon  _literally_  blurs out of the room so fast Bruce can’t even see him.

“What?” Bruce and Lois say at the exact same time.

“Are you crazy?” Lois says. “It’s going to be dangerous.”

“Lois,” Clark says, “Jon can take a tank shell without issue. He can handle what we’re going into, and he’s been begging me to take him for ages. Gotham is a good place for him to start--there’s no chance anyone will recognize him.”

Jon flies into the room, already dressed. The costume is similar enough to Superman’s own, primarily blue with red boots and shorts. The cape seems almost connected to the top itself, and Bruce squints at the giant  _S_ on his chest.

“He doesn’t have a mask?” Bruce asks. He’s not going to even make an attempt to argue that he shouldn’t be coming. He has absolutely no ground to stand on. His son is helping, and his son can’t take a  _tank shell_  without issue.

“I never needed one,” Clark says, looking slightly confused.

“Clark,” Lois says. “You didn’t need one because you act completely different and wear clothes that hide your body. Jon doesn’t have those options just yet.”

“A mask,” Bruce says. “I can get one for him to wear. We have extras at the cave.”

“Do they come in blue?” Jon asks. “Wait no, red.”

“They come in black,” Bruce says. “Or green.”

Jon makes a face.

Bruce glances down and discovers that his lasagne seems to have magically regrown. He could have sworn he was almost finished, but it’s nearly full again, and he turns his head, squinting at Clark.

“Eat,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”

Bruce grunts and goes back to eating.

“Do we need to bring snacks?” Jon asks, like they’re planning to go to the beach and not about to stop a mass-slaughter.

“No,” Clark says.”And I need you to take this seriously, Jon. No names. I’m Superman, he’s Batman, and you’re...”

“Superboy,” Jon finishes with a nod, looking particularly proud of himself. “I’ll take it seriously, dad.”

Clark  _hmms_  in his direction.

“I’m going to change,” he says. “Then we should probably go.”

Bruce has been waiting to hear that from him. He’s been waiting to hear that it’s time to go. He needs to get back in contact. The communicators don’t reach so far out, and he’s left blind.

The moment Clark is gone, Lois fixes him with a look.

“I expect you to return my husband  _and_  my son in one piece,” she corrects.

“Of course,” Bruce says, slightly alarmed by the intensity of her gaze. “Ma’am.”

She laughs at the  _ma’am_ , and collects Bruce’s dishes.

“Don’t be a stranger either when this is all over. I think Clark likes having someone he doesn’t have to hide around.”

Bruce already knows he does.


	27. Chapter 27

It took Bruce hours to make the drive from Gotham to Metropolis. Hours to loop up the coast, across the bridge, and then drive back down alongside the bay.

It takes them ten minutes to fly across, and Bruce suspects that’s only because Clark’s trying to make it easy on him. He’s not a huge fan of being carried, but there’s no better position that isn’t going to risk straining Bruce’ shoulders, so he’s forced to simply accept being carried in Clark’s arms as he flies across the bay, not far off the surface, going low and slow.

Jon zips beside them, seeming to enjoy flying just for the sake of it.

The sun’s already starting to dip when they leave, and it’s almost completely gone when they reach Gotham’s waterfront.

“Where are we going?” Clark asks, and Bruce signals for him to settle down on a warehouse, popping the communicator into his ear.

“Status?” He asks, and Jon opens his mouth to answer him before Clark covers his mouth.

“B!” Oracle says. “We were worried.”

“I was out of range,” he says. “Status?”

“Everyone’s meeting on top of GCPD headquarters,” she says. “Up on the roof. Knight says you have some kind of crazy plan?”

“It’s not crazy,” he says. He wonders if Clark can hear them talking, and decides the answer is probably  _yes_. “I’ll meet them there. Is Shrike on the line?”

“Yes,” Damian says, the  _father_  implied but not spoken. He’s good with communicator discipline. Good at not letting names leak. It’s a lesson others would be good to learn.

“Do you have a spare mask?”

“Yes,” he says. “We have a cache of equipment. Masks would be included in that.” The confusion isn’t audible in Damian’s voice, even if Bruce is sure he’s confused.

“I’ll see you all soon.”

“You will not,” Damian says. “I am currently securing people with Nightwing and Robin.”

A part of Bruce wishes Tim hadn’t come back, but he can’t reject him either.

“Oracle,” Bruce says. “Are you secure?”

“I’ve got a stack of Nightwing’s proteges here,” she says. “And a shotgun.”

Bruce doubts the court will reach so far, but he’s still wary.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he says, and drops his hand from his ear.

“I have to admit I have no idea where the station is,” Clark says. “Directions?”

Bruce does not want to fly to GCPD headquarters in superman’s arms. In a vague attempt to maintain some dignity, he insists Clark drop him off on a nearby roof, letting him glide down to the gathering to give them some warning.

He’s less worried about Clark than he is about Jon. Bringing Superman is one thing. Bringing Superman’s untrained son is a whole other.

He feels relief when his feet hit the top of the GCPD roof. He’s been there hundreds of times, and the batsignal stands in all its glory on the far end of the roof, just waiting to be turned on. He suspects it’ll blaze all night, just to remind people that the bats are out in force.

“Batman,” Slade says. He’s in his Gotham Knight armor, his face hidden, but Bruce’s eyes go to him first anyway before he scans the roof. Damian, Dick, and Tim are gone. Duke and Stephanie are also missing. Azrael is there in full armor.

It’s everyone  _else_  on the roof that throws Bruce off.

Poison Ivy stands just behind Slade, making conversation with Deadshot. Jim’s standing not far away, and to Bruce’s intense surprise he’s not glaring daggers at any of them.

“What’s the situation?” He asks.

Slade jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Ivy’s going to remain in Old Gotham,” he says. “She’s going to take care of any Talons that get into her area, and she’ll have a communicator to let us know if anything starts heading to the mainland. Deadshot’s agreed to come out of retirement to provide long ranged assistance from the top of the Wayne Enterprises building.”

They’re positioning the sniper on the tallest building of Gotham, and Bruce appreciates that. He has no idea how Slade  _found_  them, but it doesn’t matter.

“Deadshot’s doing this as a personal favor,” he notes. “Ivy wants you to lean on the city to declare the east side of Old Gotham a city park.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he says. He can’t promise anything. But if she helps, he helps.

“What about the evacuation?” Bruce asks.

“Not happening,” Jim says, stepping up to him. “We tried. Lord knows we tried. But the whole thing was being blocked at every turn. The mayor wanted evidence, and if there’s any members of the council who aren’t allied with the Court, they were too taken in by his arguments to be convinced otherwise.”

That saves Bruce explaining the Court to him at least.

“We’ve got six hours. That’s not enough time to empty Gotham, even if we forced the issue right now. They’d get stuck on the roads and be sitting ducks, limiting emergency response,” Jim adds. “I instituted a shelter in place order for tonight. Everyone’s supposed to go home, lock up, and leave the roads clear.”

“Do people know what’s happening?” Bruce asks.

Jim shakes his head.

“Batman,” he says. “We don’t have a lot of options. This is going to be our last stand. We’re going to try and save who we can, but the odds... the odds aren’t good.”

“Whats the plan?”

Slade cuts in.

“The boys are gathering up everyone we think might be a target. Civil officials, judges, prosecutors, everyone. Anyone who’s ever stood up to fight the good fight in Gotham,” he says. “We’re going to herd them into one place, and then hold our ground against the Talons that come after them. there’s no way the Court isn’t going to hear about it, so we’re hoping we’ll get as many Talons as we can in one place.”

“Where’s this happening?”

“Old subway station,” Slade says. “Ivy suggested it. It’s encased in cement and large enough to hold everyone. The one end’s already sealed off, and the entrance will limit how many can get in.”

It’s a last stand. They know they’re going to die, and they’re still willing to do so anyway.

“No one’s going to die,” he says. “I have a secret weapon, but it needs to stay off the comms.”

Jim and Slade exchange a glance, even through the thick material of Slade’s helmet, and then everyone shuffles inward, pulling comms out of their ears.

He regrets not being able to tell the others, but he can’t risk the Court finding out before the talons are released.

Bruce turns in place and whistles.

Clark seems willing to show off, appearing just above the ground in a flash of blue. Jon’s not as fast, arriving a few seconds later, stopping in the air beside his father.

Jim’s mouth falls open.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Did you go get  _Superman?”_

“I went and got Superman,” Bruce confirms. “We don’t have enough people to fight off so many Talons. It’s simply not possible. But he’s strong enough to give us a fighting chance. To save lives.”

“I don’t expect this will be a regular thing,” Clark says, looking over Jim’s uniform. He suspects Clark recognizes the signs of his position, because he adds a  _sir_  at the end.

“Explains why you wanted one of these,” Slade says, pulling a black replica of Damian’s mask out of his suit.

“Cool!” Jon says, zipping down to pluck it from Slade’s grip.

It doesn’t quite fit, but the adhesive on the mask holds it in place after a bit of wiggling.

It looks ridiculous and entirely out of place on his costume, but Bruce notices Clark visibly relax once it’s on.

“Well this got weird,” Deadshot says, and Bruce gives him a quick nod of acknowledgement.

“Tell him not to uproot any trees,” Ivy says, narrowing her eyes. “And I think I’ll be taking my leave. Things to do.”

“Keep in touch,” Slade says, passing her a communicator. “If anything happens, call.”

She winks at Slade and hops off the roof, vanishing from sight.

“You have a weird group,” Clark observes.

“Alright,” Jim asks. “I’ll ask. What’s with the kid?”

Jon is the youngest there by at  _least_  thirty years.

“He’s capable,” Bruce says. “He’s not going to be as skilled a fighter as Knight, but he’s stronger and more durable.”

“Plus I have laser eyes!” Jon announces.

“Heat vision,” Clark corrects. “Which makes your eyes water.”

Jon pouts.

“He’s still a kid,” Jim points out.

“So is Shrike,” Bruce says. “But Superman says he’s in no actual danger here, and we need the help.”

“Alright,” Slade says. “New plan. We still get everyone down to the subway station. We still have our last stand. We just have our last stand with the kid there along with us, and hopefully don’t die in the process.”

“Then what am I doing?” Clark says.

“Flying around the city,” Bruce answers. “Taking out every Talon you see. Even if most of them go for the subway station, there are still going to be people we missed. You’ll have Deadshot providing aerial support and shooting them out of the sky, but he’s only one man.”

“That leaves the people behind this to escape,” Jim says, his expression painted. Bruce suspects it’s not an objection so much as an observation. Saving lives comes first. Arresting the court comes second.

“No,” Slade says. “Because Batman and I are going to hunt down the person behind it.”

“They’ll hunt  _us_  down,” Bruce says. “All the want is revenge. Wherever you go, they’ll go. Has... has the other Batman been secured?”

“He’s been moved,” Slade confirms. “I saw to it myself.”

Bruce wants to know where but can’t bring himself to ask. Not in front of people.

“He’s safe,” Slade confirms. “And has a doctor with him.”

“What do we need to do?” Jim asks. “I’ve already pulled every office we have onto active duty for tonight.”

“Rest,” Slade says. “We need to rest. Eat, rest, and get ready. Coordinate the evacuation to the shelter. 

“I should go after Harrell,” Bruce says. “He might have information we need.”

“He might,” Jim agrees, “but right now this is guesswork. We don’t have any evidence that conclusively ties him to the Court. I don’t have the authority to arrest him.”

“As it turns out,” Bruce says. “I don’t need any authority to arrest him.”


	28. Chapter 28

Bruce lets Clark tail him on his way to city hall, gliding and grapple hooking his way across the city. He can’t let the Court know about Clark until its too late, so he makes sure they keep a low profile.

City hall is familiar to him, but he rarely visits as Batman. He lets his cape hang around him as he heads straight in the front door.

“I need to speak to the mayor.”

The secretary seems stunned to see him there, and he suspects it has more to do with what happened to Jason than anything else as she stares, mouth hanging slightly open.

“I... of course,” she says. “I’ll... I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Bruce waits as she calls up, her eyes flicking up to him nervously. She doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, but enough’s happening around Gotham that she knows enough to be worried. Shelter in place orders from the police don’t come for no reason.

“Mayor Harrell will speak to you now,” she says. “He’s just-”

Bruce is already heading towards the mayors office.

Neil glances up from his paperwork when Bruce pushes the door open. His eyes widen almost comically as he spots him.

“Batman?” He says, confused. “I thought you were in the hospital.”

For a moment, Bruce considers playing dumb. But he doubts he’ll get anything out of that, and he’s not sure he has the patience for it either.

“Wrong answer,” Bruce says. “Any public official in Gotham would know there were two. Gordon’s put it in his reports.”

Neil opens his mouth to reply, but doesn’t get a chance. Bruce leans over the desk, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet.

“What - what are you doing-”

Bruce hauls Neil over the desk, and the man yelps as Bruce marches him towards the balcony that takes up most of the left wall. It’s a gorgeous view of the city from the sixth floor.

“I know you work for the Court,” Bruce says. “You’re going to tell me where to find them.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Neil blurts out, but it’s not convincing. Bruce wonders how he ever thought Neil was an innocent man, willing to work for the good of Gotham.

“Wrong answer,” Bruce says, sliding the door open and tossing Neil onto the balcony.

Neil’s back hits the wall, bouncing against the safety glass.

“Please,” he says. “I don’t-”

“I know you work for the Court,” he says. “I know you’re working with them. Now tell me where to find her.”

Neil glances over his shoulder, through the glass. Bruce knows what he’s thinking: Can he survive the fall?

If he does, he won’t enjoy it.

Neil swallows.

“She’ll be organizing things,” he says. “She’s going to be waiting on top of Elliot Memorial Hospital. For you.”

Not for him. For Slade. But apparently Neil doesn’t know that. He doubts the Court’s incompetent enough to not compartmentalize. Neil doesn’t need to know about the woman and her revenge beyond the broad strokes.

“Where is she  _now_?” He says, and Neil frantically shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he says. “They don’t tell me. I don’t know where she is, I swear.”

A flash of light catches Bruce’s eye, and he leans over slightly, spotting a police cruiser coming up the streets, lights flashing.

“Do you know what the Court does with lose ends?” Bruce says. “They get rid of them. And now  _you’re_  a lose end. When we win tonight, whatever remains of the Court is going to decide you no longer have any use for them, compromised as you are. So if you want to live--if you want to  _keep_  living--you’ll tell the police to arrest you.”

Bruce straightens up. Neil looks panicked, glancing down through the glass as if weighing his odds.

Bruce boosts himself up onto the ledge and leaps into the air, his cape snapping out to make wings as he soars from City Hall.

“Tried to get Black Mask to play ball,” Slade says over the comms. “No dice. Best I could get out of him was that he’d stand back and not take advantage of what’s going to happen.”

Bruce doesn’t trust the promise, but it’s something at least. He suspects that Black Mask is on the Court’s kill list, so he’ll likely be busy anyway.

“We’re going to eat,” Slade says. “You all need to be ready.”

“I need to see Batman,” Bruce says. “And-” He needs to see everyone. They could get hurt. They could die. He wants to see his sons.

“Everyone but him’s going to be getting food,” Slade says. “So meet up with us, eat some food, and then get ready to go.”

Bruce wants to see Jason, but he lets himself prepare in other ways first.

 _Food_  turns out not to be fast food and protein bars eating on a rooftop.  _Food_ turns out to be that someone--Slade or otherwise--has taken over an entire 60s diner.

“Cool!” Jon announces when they touch down in a mostly empty parking lot. Bruce grunts, touching the communicator in his ear.

“Are we at the correct-”

“I can see you through the window,” Slade says. “So yes.”

“They’re inside,” Clark confirms. “Just...” His eyes scan the building. “I would assume your allies and the staff. There don’t appear to be any other civilians.”

There’s a  _private party_  sign at the entrance when Bruce opens the door.

It’s a last hurragh, Bruce realizes. Half of them don’t even know about Clark. They’re eating their final meal and wanting it to be one they enjoy. They want to be  _ready_.

Bruce spots Michael, still in his suit, speaking to a member of the staff, but when he spots Bruce he stops, waving at him before faltering, spotting Clark and Jon.

“Can I fly?” Jon asks. “How secret is this?”

“Not secret,” Azrael says, cutting across the room. “But staffed by people willing to show their support.”

Jon takes that as a  _no_  with a pout.

“Batman!” Tim yells, only just catching himself as he stands up. “You were gone so long, we were...” He trails off as Clark and Jon round the corner.

“Superboy,” Bruce says. “Why don’t you go talk to Shrike.”

Jon doesn’t need to be told twice. He hops, doing a completely implausible series of in-air somersaults, and lands perfectly in the booth across from Damian.

“Hi!” He announces.

Damian scowls at the theatrics. Dick looks delighted by the show of acrobatics.

“I brought backup,” Bruce says. “They’ll be helping tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Duke says. “Your backup is  _Superman_?”

“Introductions, Batman?” Clark asks.

Bruce starts to gesture.

“Nightwing, Robin, and Shrike are at the booth with Superboy. The man in white is Azrael, an ally of ours, who seems to have set this up. The pair behind them are Signal and Batgirl, who are Nightwing and Robin’s proteges, respectively.”

“I think I evolved past that,” Stephanie protests.

“Then there’s the Gotham Knight and Deadshot.”

“You’ve got a lot of people,” Clark says.

“There’s more,” Tim points out. “But Gordon wouldn’t come. Said he’d eat in his office. So this is vigilantes only.”

Deadshot snorts.

“Well,” Clark says. “I’m Superman, then. And this is Superboy, who’ll be helping.”

Jon doesn’t even look up, already chatting Damian’s ear off.

“It’s important that Superman’s presence here not be discovered by the Court,” Bruce says. “If they find out, they might change the plan.”

“Is that necessarily a bad thing?” Clark asks. “Fewer people would die.”

“They’d just move it off,” Slade points out. “And they won’t be nice enough to give us warning next time.”

“How far are we through the relocation?” Bruce asks as he slides up to the large table in the center of the room. Slade and Deadshot are already there, and Azrael joins them almost immediately. Duke and Stephanie grab seats of their own, and Nightwing and Robin drift over, carrying their drinks. Damian darts over before the table can fill up, claiming the seat beside Bruce before Clark can.

Clark scoots over, and when Jon appears, scoots over once more so the boys can sit between them.

“We’ve notified pretty much everyone,” Dick says. “Either by calling them or banging down their doors. Everyone’s going to start moving at nine. Everyone in place by ten-thirty, just in case the Court decides to start early.”

“Has Knight shared the plan?” He asks, glancing to Dick and Tim.

“I did,” Knight says. “Just said you had a secret weapon.”

And excited looking woman stops at the table, and Bruce realizes her badge reads  _Manager_.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Did anyone else want drinks, or should we start ordering? I know you said you were on a schedule.”

There is something a step beyond surreal about ordering food in full costume, and he’s obviously not the only one who feels the same way.

“How exactly did you set this up?” Bruce asks, glancing around the table and waiting for someone to fess up.

“That was me,” Azrael confirms. “We stopped a robbery here about a month back. I called and asked if they’d be willing to help.”

Bruce wishes he had a recording for how that call went.

“And the cost-”

‘They said they’d eat it,” Azrael says. “No one was going to be out and about tonight anyway.”

Bruce makes  _another_  note to have Wayne Enterprises contact them.

“You did a good job,” he says. “It’s good to have a place that we can talk without being exposed. And the odds that the Court has an operative here are...”

Bruce glances around, eyes flicking from the out of order Jukebox to the tacky decorations on the wall.

“...Slim.”

“Alright,” Steph asks. “I’ll bite. How  _exactly_ are you two going to eat?”

She flicks her eyes between Slade and Azrael.

Everyone else is either wearing a domino mask or has their mouth exposed, but Slade and Azrael are the only ones with their faces covered.

“I’m not concerned,” Slade says, reaching up to press a button on his helmet. His face-mask disengages, flipping up to expose his face. “Lawton already knows what I look like.”

Deadshot scowls at him.

“No names,” he says.

“Oh please,” Slade says as the staff arrives, delivering food before retreating to a respectable distance. “Like they don’t already know.”

Clark, who definitely doesn’t already know, looks perplexed.

“I’m missing something,” he says, taking a bite of his wrap. “What am I missing?” He looks to Bruce.

“Deadshot’s retired,” Bruce says. “He ran afoul of the law before that, but from what I understand he’s legit now.”

Deadshot scowls at him.

“I should have known the Bat would know.”

“You should have,” Slade agrees.

Michael’s decided to be a bit more subtle about it. He’s unhooked the bottom of his faceplate, lifting it up to expose his mouth just long enough to take a bite. It leaves him blind, and it looks awkward, but Bruce understands why he doesn’t want to fully unmask. Slade has less of an identity to protect. He’s always been a recluse.

“Anyone want to say a few words?” Tim asks.

They all know better than to look at Bruce. He is not a motivational speaker. He doesn’t do speeches and tell people how they’re going to save the world. That’s Jason’s job, and Jason can’t.

There’s an awkward silence, and then Clark clears his throat.

"I’m a stranger to most of you,” he says. “But I thought... I thought it would be nice to recognize this. That you’re all coming out here, putting your life on the line for your city.”

“It means something,” Bruce says, “that you were willing to come even when it was a lost cause.”

The room is silent as everyone looks at him.

“That was,” Dick says after a moment. “Profound.”

Bruce scowls.

“I think we can all agree he’s no motivational speaker,” Slade says, patting Bruce on the shoulder. 

“I think he did just fine,” Clark says, looking even  _more_  confused. He doesn’t understand the dynamics at play. He has no context for what’s happening.

Jon says something, but whatever he says is completely lost in the fact that he’s stuffing his face with grilled cheese.

“J- Superboy,” Clark chides. “Swallow your food,  _then_  talk.”

“He’s so dad,” Duke mumbles.

“Critical levels of dad,” Stephanie agrees.

Bruce shoots them a look, but neither is dissuaded.

“We should probably start heading out,” Michael says. “We need to start getting into place.”

“Superman will be patrolling the city by air,” Bruce says. “Deadshot will take a position atop the Wayne Enterprises building. The Knight and I will go after the Court’s representative. Everyone else will handle the defense of the Court’s targets.”

He pauses, then shifts his eyes to Dick.

“Nightwing,” he says. “Superboy is extremely powerful, but has minimal battle experience. I want you to help coordinate him.”

He’s not intending for Dick to be defending or babysitting Jon. No, instead Bruce wants Nightwing to aim Superboy, to make sure he’s going where he’s needed. To make sure he’s not getting distracted.

Dick nods.

“I can handle that,” he says. Of all of them, Dick has the most experience in training and coordinating younger members of the team.

No one asks where he’s going. Everyone else has jobs to do right then. Gear to transport. Positions to hold. Bruce and Slade stand alone. They have nothing to do.

But everyone knows just what it is they’re going to do.

“We’ll see you on the other side,” Bruce says.


	29. Chapter 29

With Clark gone, Bruce has no real form of transport. The batmobile’s been claimed, his car’s back in Metropolis, and the Batwing is ferrying gear around the city.

Bruce needs a quick mode of transport, and that’s the excuse he uses to justify going back to the manor. It’s not for any other reason, he tells himself. It’s because he needs transport.

He slides onto the back of Slade’s bike, the entire thing sagging under their combined weight, but they manage.

Slade doesn’t question it. Slade understands better than anyone.

They leave central Gotham, weaving through the light traffic. The shelter in place order is already in effect, and everyone’s hunkering down, doing what they can to keep themselves safe. They have three hours until things are supposed to start, but it feels like no time at all.

Slade takes them the back way, leaving the street to heave up an unpaved road that leads to the cave.

Bruce’s legs feel like jelly as they pass through the cave’s security, heading into the cave itself.

He isn’t surprised to find a makeshift hospital room there.

Someone--most likely Alfred--has set up curtains to make it look a bit less dark and grim. As they pull in, the woman standing beside Jason’s bed looks up, and Bruce recognizes Leslie Thompkins. She’s saved his life more than once, and he’d consider her an ally without question, but she’s never come to the cave before, which makes it that much more obvious how serious the situation is.

Titus bounds up to Bruce as he slides off the back of the bike, nosing at his legs. Bruce gives him a quick scratch behind the ears out of pure instinct, and heads up the stairs towards the hospital bed.

“Bruce,” Leslie says, her face grim. “How are things going outside?”

“Everyone’s just getting into place,” Bruce says. “We’re here to pick up a bike for me.”

Leslie doesn’t look fooled for even a moment, and she steps back, letting Bruce approach the bed.

Jason looks the same as he did that morning. He still looks peaceful, sleeping without any sort of awareness of what’s happening around him. He has no idea who’s there, or what they’re about to face.

Bruce trails his fingers across Jason’s forehead and swallows down the emotion rising in his throat.

Jason should be there. He should be fighting alongside them. He shouldn’t be condemned to a bed by a woman he knows nothing about, who seems to hate him for a reason Bruce cannot understand.

There’s no chair, so Bruce simply kneels beside the bed, reaching down to take Jason’s hand in his own.

“Has he woken up yet?”

“No,” Leslie says. “You shouldn’t expect him to for a while. If he wakes up too early, he won’t have fully healed and he’ll injure himself more.”

None of what she’s said changes that Bruce wants to hear him. He wants to hear Jason say that he’s okay.

Slade rests a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll wake up, Bruce,” Slade says. “We just have to win the night to make sure he has a place to wake up to.”

“Master Bruce!” Alfred calls from the stairs, balancing a tray in one hand. “I heard the perimeter alarm and hoped it would be you.”

“Alfred,” Bruce says, turning his head. He can’t make himself let go of the hand clasped in his fingers. Not quite yet.

“I’m not sure if Miss Gordon informed you,” Alfred says, “but I will be sealing the cave off shortly. Full nuclear protocols, and no one will go in and out for at least six hours.”

Six hours seems like enough. If they haven’t resolved the issue in six hours, they’re not going to solve it at all.

“Please take care of Jason,” he says.

“Of course,” Alfred says. “Miss Thompkins has offered to stay with us in order to ensure his condition remains stable.”

“It’s a win-win situation,” she says. “I get to make sure a former patient stays healthy, and I get to make sure that nothing tries to kill me.”

Thompkins is definitely going to be targeted. Bruce would be shocked if she  _wasn’t_. So her being locked in the cave is one less thing to worry about.

“Bruce,” Slade says. “We need to get going so they can seal the cave.”

Bruce doesn’t want to let go, but he makes himself do just that, releasing Jason’s hand.

He’ll come back.

He slides onto a bike, handling it easy as he rides it out of the cave. He doesn’t take off like he plans, though. Instead he sits just beyond the entrance, watching as Alfred activates the security. He watches the metal shutters slide shut, and then glances to Slade.

Slade doesn’t look upset. Slade looks deathly serious, and Bruce realizes what he’s know for so long but not been willing to admit to himself.

“You’re going to kill her,” he says.

It isn’t a question. He already knows the answer, even before Slade responds, his eye still fixed on the shutters.

“Yes,” he says. “You don’t get a say in this. She almost killed Jason. She’s threatening you and everyone else who lives here.”

Bruce is silent. He doesn’t know what to say. He knows nothing he says is going to change Slade’s mind. He won’t let her live.

“We need to know what she knows,” he finally says. “If there’s other members of the court.”

Slade grunts and doesn’t answer, and Bruce makes himself take a deep breath. He’ll deal with it when it happens. It might not even matter.

“Lets go,” Bruce says, and starts back towards the city.


	30. Chapter 30

It’s ten minutes to midnight when Clark sees the first one.

He’s high up, well out of sight for anyone not using binoculars, scanning the city and waiting for things to start. He knows it probably won’t be  _exactly_  midnight. A few minutes won’t likely matter to someone about to kill hundreds of people. 

He hopes everyone’s in place. He’s high up enough that the communicator in his ear’s only picking up bits and pieces.

He watches something dark dart out of a building. It might be an ally, but when it’s followed quickly after by another, there’s not much question.

Then a third.

Clark drops, plummeting until he’s only just above the tallest building in Gotham, and presses the communicator in his ear.

“I see them,” he says. “They’re startin-” He cuts himself off, head swinging around.

“Multiple sources,” he corrects. “There’s some coming out of a tall building on... southeast side of Gotham. And a bunch... There’s at least five sources.”

Voices he doesn't recognize confirm his message, and Clark gets to work. There’s no time to waste.

\----

It’s nine minutes to midnight when Deadshot sees his first target. It’s fast moving, gliding through the air in a manner not unlike the bats themselves do.

“Contact,” he says. “South side of the tower immediately east of Falcone Tower.”

He doesn’t wait for orders. He doesn’t need them. He carefully takes aim, knowing the first one has to count, and squeezes the trigger.

There’s no explosion. He has explosive rounds, but those are for later. For if he needs them. A normal high-caliber round will do just as well. There’s really no obvious sign that he’s hit at all, with his target being so far away and hidden by darkness.

But when he trains his scope on it, he watches the thing begin to sink, losing altitude. It’s dead weight, only fabric of its suit keeping it in the air as it glides slowly downward.

Deadshot adjusts his aim, picking out his next target.

“One dead,” he says into his communicator.

“A hundred and ninety nine to go,” he says to himself.

\---

It’s eight minutes to midnight as Tim stands near the rear of the subway platform, trying not to feel resentful. He knows why they placed him at the back. Even if they said it was important to have someone in the back of the cave to keep people calm, he knows why he’s really there: Because they’re all worried about him. Because if someone gets out, they want it to be him.

He knows it’s going to bother him when the fighting really starts. He knows it’s going to bug him not being on the front lines.

Right then it’s not so bad. Everyone else is clustered by the entrance, waiting for something to happen. He’s the only one in the cave with an actual _job._ He makes his presence known, walking among the crowd. There’s almost three hundred people crowded onto the subway platform, and they’re packed like sardines. It’s cramped and smelly and most of them have already been there for two hours already.

They’re all right on the verge of panic, and it’s Tim’s job to make sure they don’t.

A little girl sniffles, and Tim steps over to her, crouching down and resting his arms across his knees, his chin on top of them.

“Worried?” He asks her. She can’t be older than five or six.

She nods, sniffling as she clings to her mother.

“You don’t have to be,” Tim says. “Because you’ve got the best of Gotham here to guard you.”

The girl smiles at him.  _This_ is his job. Not fighting. Not going toe to toe with a monster. It’s helping the people of Gotham, and making sure that they see a light at the end of the tunnel.

\---

It’s seven minutes to midnight as Duke stands not far from the entrance, swallowing down his anxiety as he listens to the communicator. That’s his job. Relaying information. He’s not surprised to be put in more of a support role--there’s a limited amount of space and a lot of people--but it feels so  _delicate_. Like there’s too much at stake. No one else at the entrance is wearing a communicator in order to make sure they don’t get distracted, so it’s his job to relay anything important.

The communicator crackles to life in his ear.

“They’re moving,” he says. “Our eye in the sky says there’s at least five sources around Gotham.”

Dick glances back to him and nods.

“Keep going,” he says. “Anything important.”

Duke listens, chewing on his lip. He’s in his gear. He’s ready to fight. A part of him  _wants_  to fight.

A larger part of him hopes he won’t have to. If he does, it means the front line has fallen.

“Deadshot’s made contact,” Duke relays. “He just took one down.”

He hopes everything else goes that smoothly.

\---

It’s six minutes to midnight when Jim Gordon checks the time. He feels like it’s been the longest twelve hours of his life, and the last few minutes have reached an excruciating level of slowness. Every minute is taking days to pass. He knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help but feel that the moment the clock strikes midnight, everything’s going to go wrong. Like the whole of Gotham is just going to explode.

“Cash?” He asks into the radio.

“In position,” Cash says. “Just like we were the last three times you asked.”

“I want regular radio contact,” Gordon says. “I don’t want someone getting snuck up on.”

“It’s not even time yet,” Cash points out.

“It’s time,” Lancaster says. “Big thing just crashed into the ground a block east of us. We’re going to go check it out.”

“Report in,” Gordon says.

One of the officers with him starts to pray. Gordon thinks it’s appropriate, considering the situation.

“Yep,” Lancaster says. “That’s one of the things that attacked the party. Missing most of it’s skull.”

“We’ve got one too,” Anderson says. “And - this one’s entire torso’s caved in. There’s a  _dent_  in the west side of city hall.”

“We’ve got a woman screaming,” Thraves says. “We’re going to investigate.”

Reports start to trickle in, and Gordon just hopes that they’re going to be enough.

\---

It’s five minutes to midnight when Damian chances another peek out the door. He’s happy to have a job, but he does feel like his talents are being a bit underutilized. He’d probably be better as part of the front line, and instead Dick’s decided he’s the  _scout_.

“You’re the fastest,” Dick had said, as if there wasn’t another boy who could  _fly_.

Damian grumbles as he ducks back into the opening. They’re sure the Court of Owls isn’t incompetent enough to have failed to notice the mass relocation of their targets, but that doesn’t mean they’ve found their way there any time-

There’s movement farther up, and Damian spares a quick glance upwards before darting back inside, taking the steps down to the old subway platform three at a time.

“Incoming!” He yells, skidding through the platform entrance just as Stephanie and Michael start to push it closed behind him. Michael drops the heavy slat across the door, sealing it closed. No  _human_  could open it, but that isn’t a confirmation of anything. It’s only going to slow them down.

\---

It’s four minutes to midnight when Dick spots Damian running down the stairs towards them. He retreats back inside, turning his attention to Damian.

“How many?” He needs to know how fast they’re coming. He needs every bit of information. “Signal, let them know we have incoming.”

“Got it,” Duke calls, turning his attention back to the communicator.

“I saw eight,” Damian says. “But they were coming in quickly. They’ve got material in their suits that allows them to glide, and they’re using it to quickly reach ground level targets.”

Like them.

“Everyone in positions,” Dick says, right as the first Talon hits the doors. The sound is  _loud_ , and the civilians behind them cry out. He hopes Tim can quiet them. They don’t need the distraction.

They can’t afford it.

\---

It’s three minutes to midnight when Jon watches the things approach the door. Everyone else jumps when the first talon hits it, but Jon doesn’t. He can see them coming. He’s not  _surprised._  The entire platform’s lined with lead, blocking his vision, but the door? The door’s just metal. As long as he squints the right way, he can see them.

“There’s twenty,” he says. “Maybe twenty-two.”

Nightwing gives him a confused look before deciding it doesn’t matter, turning back towards the door as the door bangs again.

“You know what to do,” he says, a hand coming down to rest on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Thirty,” Jon says. He’s just guessing. They’re coming down the stairs so fast he can’t even count them all. They’re just  _piling_  in, and the lead around the platform’s making it hard to see.

The door bangs again, and there’s the faint groan. There’s no intelligence from the Talons, no coordinated effort. They’re simply all trying to force their way in at once, and the big metal door can’t hold up. They’re climbing all over each other, scrambling to reach their targets.

“Superboy?” Nightwing asks.

“Ready,” he confirms.

Nightwing nods, and Jon shoots forward. It’s close to his top speed, and he slams his shoulder right into the metal doors with all the strength he can manage.

The door goes flying off it’s hinges, slamming into every Talon on the other side at once.

\---

It’s two minutes to midnight when Michael spots his cue to move. It’s a hard one to miss. One minute Superboy’s standing between them, and the next he’s simply  _gone._

There’s a deafening crash, and the door doesn’t  _collapse_  so much as it is ejected violently onto the staircase. It goes a good thirty feet before it finally stops, and Michael can’t begin to guess how many Talons were just crushed to death.

Michael darts forward at the same time Dick does. Even if the first line of Talons are dead, and the second line are crushed, there’s still more still coming.

Michael rarely gets to use his sword, but the Talons aren’t human. Not anymore. They’re what he might have been, haunted echos of what happened to him.

He’s going to make them pay for every inch.

\---

It’s one minute to midnight when Stephanie sees Dick stagger. This is what she’s here for. This is what she’s needed for. She leaps forward, flipping over Dick’s head, and lands a kick directly onto the offending Talon’s skull. Dick falls back immediately, taking a moment to ready himself.

In such a narrow hallway, there’s only so many Talons that can come at a time. Two of them are enough to block it.

Superboy zips by overhead, and there’s a sudden gust of heat as twin lines of pure heat shoot up the hallway. Several Talons simply die, unable to continue with the damage that’s just been forced on them.

Stephanie drives her staff into the Talon’s throat, driving it back. She’s not sure if she killed it, but she knows she’s at least thrown them off balance.

“Rotate!” Dick yells, and Stephanie falls back immediately as Dick takes her place. She has a moment to rest, waiting for the next time one of the front line falters.

They can’t let anyone through.

\---

It’s midnight when the manor’s security system begins to light up. Something’s come inside, and Alfred activates the cameras, watching Talons swarm in the doors. Looking for him. For Jason.

There’s nothing to find. They’re all sealed down in the cave, and every entrance is blocked. Master Bruce himself wouldn’t be able to get in if he were there.

“How bad is it?” Miss Thompkins asks from her place beside Jason’s bed.

“I believe the manor is going to need extensive repairs,” Alfred says.

“And the situation?”

Alfred stares at the monitor.

“Too early to say,” Alfred says.

“Well, lets hope it’s going to be alright,” Miss Thompkins says, staring up at the monitor with him.

“We just have to have faith that they’ll pull through.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not adding it to the full fic tags, but I'm going to just warn for it here: There's some eye gore in this chapter. An inevitability when you write a chapter about a very angry Slade who's missing his own eye.

It’s thirty minutes to midnight, and there’s no sign of them. Bruce assumed they’d show up early, but the roof is silent.

Slade isn’t speaking. He hasn’t said a word since they left the manor, lost in his own barely contained anger. It was up to Bruce to get them into the hospital, taking advantage of the head of security’s kindness to get them up without issue.

But that’s it.

There’s been nothing since then.

“Slade,” he says, breaking the silence.

“You can’t convince me,” Slade says. “She dies.  _Jason_  could have died. It was only chance that kept him from doing so, and I’m not going to give her a chance to correct her mistake.”

Bruce steps over, reaching up to rest a hand on Slade’s shoulder. He expects Slade to shrug him off, but he doesn’t.

They stay like that for a while, and then Bruce pulls away to start patrolling around the edge of the room. He isn’t likely to spot them before they want to be spotted, but it’s worth the chance.

He still doesn’t know who she is, and that fact is eating him up inside. Everything she’s done is deeply personal, specifically aimed to hurt Slade. To tear him apart. To destroy what he has. Not just to kill him, but to  _hurt_  him.

At ten minutes to midnight, Bruce’s communicator crackles to life and he listens intently as each successive ally jumps into action one by one.

He slips the communicator from his ear and tucks it into his suit. He can’t afford the distraction.

Slade stands in the center of the roof, staring out over the city. He doesn’t move, even as the door behind them opens.

Bruce spins. He didn’t expect their opponent to come the same way they did, but that’s exactly what she does.

His hands already on his batarang, and Slade hasn’t even moved.

The woman is dressed the same way she was in the hospital, her face hidden behind the owl mask. She turns her head slightly, the glass lenses catching the light, and Bruce scowls.

“You’ve already lost,” he says. “Your plan’s come to nothing.”

“ _My_  plan hasn’t come to nothing,” she says. “ _My_  plan is only just starting. You mean the Court’s plan.”

It’s just another clear signal that the only thing that matters to her is her revenge.

He sees Slade move out of the corner of his eye, his hand slipping to his armor where his knife is sheathed. He knows Slade will kill her, and he has to  _know_. He can’t not know why this is happening. He can’t spend the rest of his life wondering why Jason’s lying unconscious in the cave rather than fighting beside them.

“Why?” Bruce says. “Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t care about her realizing he doesn’t know. It won’t matter before long.

“You don’t even know,” she says. “You’re supposed to be the  _world’s greatest detective_  and you haven’t even figured that much o-”

Slade moves. This is the man who nearly killed Bruce twice, who he won against only by sheer stubborn will. He’s trained against him a hundred times since then, sparring and making sure he doesn’t get rusty, and this is  _still_  the fastest he’s seen him move. There’s no grace to it, no finesse. He simply moves, stabbing the dagger towards her.

She hops backwards, and Bruce realizes something he’s missed: She’s just as fast as any of the Talons. Bruce bets she’s just as strong.

Slade doesn’t let up. He isn’t even slightly thrown by her speed, twisting to the side as she tosses a dagger. Slade is usually more theatrical about his fighting. He taunts. He shows off. But this is brutal and fast. 

Bruce throws himself into the fray.

He’s not as fast or strong as them, but he’s no slouch either. He’s trained with Slade, and he knows how to deal with someone who outmatches him physically. It’s two against one, and he presses the advantage. She knocks aside Bruce’s punch, but the distraction lets Slade’s knife cut through the material of her outfit, glancing off something metal.

She jumps back, and there’s a momentary pause.

Slade slaps his knife back into it’s sheath and pulls his sword instead. He rarely carries it as the Gotham Knight, but the sword fits the look anyway.

“You tried to kill my son,” Slade says.

There’s no followup. He simply lunges forward.

Slade isn’t leaving him an opening. There’s no space for Bruce to join in, no spot for him to help. As personal as the fight is for the woman, it’s personal for Slade too.

She catches his sword on a gauntlet that Bruce can’t even  _see_ , but she doesn’t catch every blow. She’s giving ground, being driven back by every blow as Slade presses his advantage. He catches her on the ribs, shearing through armor with a screech, and she scrambles back.

There’s blood on Slade’s sword as he whips it to the side, splattering it across the rooftop. The woman reaches down, touching her side, and her hand comes away with blood.

“I suppose I should take this seriously,” she says, reaching behind her to draw out a sword of her own. It isn’t as long as Slade’s own, but there’s advantages and disadvantages to each.

And then Bruce realizes what he’s seeing.

“She’s healing,” Bruce says. Her side’s stopped bleeding. The flesh has already knit itself closed. Regeneration is going to make the fight so much harder.

“Good,” Slade says. “Maybe I’ll get to kill her twice.”

Slade lunges forward at the same moment Bruce throws a Batarang. She catches Slade’s sword with her own, but misses the Batarang, and it cracks into the side of her faceplate. She stumbles, and Slade shoves forward, throwing her back into the fence that rings the roof.

She nearly goes through, but instead bounces back, falling to her knee.

Slade walks forward, sword in hand. He’s taking his time with it, dragging it out.

“Slade,” Bruce says. “This isn’t what Jason would want.”

“You don’t  _know_  what Jason would want,” Slade snaps. “If you think Jason is against revenge the way you are, you’re deluding yourself.”

“I’m not saying he’s against revenge,” Bruce says. “I’m saying he puts protecting people ahead of murder. She’s the only one who knows who the Court is. She’s the only one who can give us answers.”

Slade stops advancing. He’s still  _thinking_  about it.

“She can do that one armed,” he says and lunges.

She’s had time to recover and prepare for what’s to come, but the glass of her lenses is cracked. It’s ruining her vision, and she’s forced to play defensive, countering each blow as it comes. But Slade’s stronger, driving her back step by step.

Bruce can’t even see what she does. Slade’s body is between the two of them. One minute Slade’s driving her backwards, and the next there’s an explosion, and Slade goes flying backwards.

He slams into the wall beside the door, cracking the cement, and even with the Gotham Knight armor the damage is extensive. The plates are cracked, there’s blood everywhere, and the helmet’s shattered.

Slade’s already picking himself up, but Bruce knows he’ll need a moment to regenerate and darts forward.

He tosses a Batarang as he does, but this time she spots it, slapping it out of the air with her sword. Something drops to the ground--a spent explosive?--and counters Bruce’s punch.

She’s had a lot of training, but this is one place where Bruce is firmly ahead of Slade. He knows those moves. They’re  _League_  moves, and he’s trained with Ra’s and Talia hundreds of times. He knows just how to react. In such close quarters, her sword is more of a hindrance than a help, and Bruce slips past her defenses, close enough to headbutt her already cracked faceplate.

She stumbles, and Bruce breaks her arm before she can recover. The sword clatters to the ground, and she pulls a second device.

Bruce takes a risk and kicks her arm. The device goes flying, but not quite far enough--he’s knocked off his feet by the explosion, slamming into the roof with a wheeze.

Slade goes hurtling past him, slamming into her as she tries to recover. Her arm’s already starting to heal, but it’s not healing fast enough to stop Slade from pinning her to the ground, his hands circling her throat. There’s armor there--enough to stop anyone else from doing exactly what Slade is doing--but it simply buckles under the strength of his hands as he starts to choke her.

“Slade!” Bruce says, but it’s not loud enough. He’s still trying to catch his breath. “Slade!” He tries again, forcing himself to his knees. There’s blood, but the blood matters a lot less than the fact that Slade’s about to murder their only lead on the league.

She has one arm free, and doesn’t make the mistake of trying to break his grip. Instead she grabs one of her daggers and starts to stab it into Slade’s arm repeatedly. The armor’s compromised enough that it offers no real resistance, and it’s really just a matter of stabbing enough until it overwhelms his regeneration and the muscle gives way.

“Slade!” Bruce yells again, pushing up to his feet.

Slade isn’t listening. Enraged, he releases his hands, grabbing her hand as she sucks in a breath, and twists her arm around so the blade is aimed towards her. He starts forcing it down, even as her half-healed arm comes up to try and stop it.

“Slade!”

The dagger keeps dropping lower, and when it hits the glass of her lenses Slade just pushes harder.

The lenses, already cracked, give way as Slade pushes the knife down harder.

The woman isn’t a Talon. She can still feel pain. She’s grunted and hissed with every injury, and as Slade digs the knife into her face she screams.

“Slade!” Bruce yells against as they reach him. “Stop!”

Slade releases his grip, and the woman jerks the knife away. Bruce thinks it’s over, but he’s not nearly so lucky. Slade’s hands come back down, and Bruce jerks backwards. It only lasts a second, and then Slade tosses his hand to the side, the bloody mess of what was once her eyeball splattering on the roof.

“Something to remember me by,” Slade says, and breaks her other arm just to make a point.

Bruce isn’t sure if the eye is going to come back. Considering Slade’s still missing his, he’s pretty sure the answer is  _no_.


	32. Chapter 32

Slade climbs off the woman. She’s covered in blood, with one arm completely broken--not even cleanly--and one arm still healing. Bruce doesn’t bother with delicacy as he grabs both her hands, pulling them together and cuffing them together. Just to be safe, he cuffs her ankles as well.

She doesn’t try to get up, panting and in obvious pain.

“This has gone on long enough,” Bruce says. He reaches down, hooking his fingers under the broken faceplate and pulling the mask off to reveal her face.

He doesn’t know her. She’s a complete stranger, entirely unfamiliar.

“I don’t even know who the fuck this  _is_ , Bruce,” Slade says as he spits just to the side, clearing the blood from his mouth. There’s no recognition in his eye.

Bruce reaches up, cleaning some of the blood. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties, and what he can see looks mixed. Southeast Asian?

It’s the hair that throws Bruce off. His first thought was that it was bright red, but he realizes that what little he can see peeking out from the hood is simply stained with blood. When he reaches up to pull it back, her hair is pure white.

Her remaining eye is blue. Her hair is white. She’s faster and stronger than any human should be, with a healing factor to match.

“Slade,” Bruce says, jerking his head around.

Slade isn’t even looking.

The woman below him starts to laugh. It’s a pained laughter, but it’s still  _laughter_ , and she rolls onto her side, the blood streaking down her face.

“Of course,” she says. “Of course he wouldn’t tell you. Wouldn’t want to leak his dirty little secrets to his new family, would he? Of course not. Of course.”

Bruce pulls away. There’s blood on his gloves from touching her face. He’s pretty sure some of the blood is his own, and when he pats down his side his hand comes away wet.

He ignores it.

“Slade,” he says. “She’s your daughter.”

Slade’s head jerks around so fast Bruce could swear he hears Slade’s neck snap.

“What?” He says, his eye dropping down to where she lies on the roof.

“She’s your daughter,” Bruce says. “She has your eyes.” Eye, he guesses. “Your hair. Your regeneration. Your strength.”

“I don’t have a daughter,” Slade says, but the look on his face--completely exposed, the mask abandoned on the ground--makes it obvious that he realizes it too.

She laughs again, and it turns into a ragged cough. Bruce suspects she’s cracked a rib. Maybe more than one.

“Apparently you do,” Bruce says. 

For a moment, Slade’s face is filled with such  _rage_  that Bruce is taken back, and then it’s gone, replaced with a usual glare.

“I don’t have a daughter,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “My daughter wouldn’t have tried to kill my son. She wouldn’t have tried to destroy everything I spent so long building.”

Slade turns away.

“You lost,” Bruce says to her. He has a lot of questions, but the Court matters more right then. “Give us the names of the Court of Owls.”

He needs to sit her down. Needs to find out  _why_. Because even knowing who she is--even knowing how she’s connected to Slade--doesn’t explain  _why_. Why Jason? Why not just talk to them?

“Why should I?”

“Because you don’t care about their cause,” Bruce says. “You have no interest in Gotham. The only thing you cared about was Slade, and you failed. So now it’s just a matter of practicality. If you give us the names of the Court members, that would be looked upon favorably. You’d probably get a nice cell. Some amenities. A chance to actually get out before you die of old age.”

She stares up at him, her expression serious, and he wonders if she’s thinking  _when I get out of prison, I can try again_.

He thinks she is.

Bruce wavers for a moment. He’s more tired than he expected. Any fight is liable to take the energy out of him, but this is something else.

“Luke Jensen. Clint Jordan. Agnes Burns. Calvin Ingram. Jamie Abbot. Susan Lane.”

She starts to rattle off names, and Bruce pops his communicator into his ear, repeating each one.

“Oracle,” he says when she’s done. “Did you get those?”

“Got them,” she says. “At least... almost half of those are down in the-”

Bruce misses what she says, and he shakes his head.

“They’re members of the Court of Owls,” Bruce says. “They all need to be arrested.”

“What was that last bit?” Oracle says. “You’re-”

He misses whatever she’s saying. He can’t quite hear her.

Bruce doesn’t remember falling, but suddenly he’s staring up at the sky, and there’s a pair of arms around him. He’s not aware enough to register whose arms they are, only that the stars look nice from that part of Gotham.

Bruce passes out.


	33. Chapter 33

Bruce wakes, before anything else, to a floaty sensation. Like his body isn’t touching anything. He knows himself enough to know what that entails (painkillers), but still can’t quite make himself move.

It seems to take forever before he comes back to himself, the disconnected sensation from before replaced with a numb pain through his whole body. He takes a moment to orient himself, to try and narrow it down, and decides that most of it is just from his side.

He lets out a small groan and tries to sit up, only to immediately be met with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the bed.

“I told them they should have tied you up,” Slade says, and Bruce cracks an eye open.

Slade is  _Slade_ , which is notable simply for the fact that he’s not the Gotham Knight. There’s no attempt being made to pretend he’s anything other than Slade Wilson. He’s dressed in a collared shirt and slacks, which tells Bruce that whatever happened, the danger’s over.

He squints, and Jason’s hospital bed comes into focus just behind Slade.

Or at least he’s pretty sure it’s Jason. Lying down he can only see a vague outline and the side of Jason’s face.

“Where...?”

“Hospital,” Slade says. “Down on the mainland.”

Bruce tentatively moves his hand up, probing his side. It hurts when he touches it.

“Idiot,” Slade chides. “Stop poking at it.”

“Just tell me...” Bruce needs to take a second to recover. His mouth feels like sandpaper.

Slade stands up, lifting a glass of water to Bruce’s lips and letting him drink. It stings, and the water tastes coppery. He suspects he’s still got a bit of blood in his mouth.

“Tell me,” he says, feeling a little bit stronger when he does.

“ _You_ ,” Slade says, “and your son were attacked by Talons in the manor. You got treated at Elliot Memorial, but both they and Gotham General were running shorthanded, so you moved down to the mainland for some privacy.”

It’s a good story.

“And?” Bruce says. “What actually happened?”

“Shrapnel from the explosion you were caught in tore through your side,” Slade says. “The suit kept you from bleeding out. You also broke two ribs, but those were fairly minor compared to the fact that you were leaking blood all over the roof. You were lucky we were fighting on top of a hospital, because all I had to do was haul you down a floor and demand they give you some blood.”

He looks embarrassed for a moment.

“Forgot your blood type,” he admits. “Had to get universal donor.”

“Probably better they don’t know my blood type,” Bruce admits. “Everyone else...?”

He knows, in general terms, what happened after he passed out. Slade took him down to the hospital, got him medical treatment, and then... Did something with his daughter. Bruce doesn’t want to ask. He’s not sure if she’s dead.

“Deadshot’s already left,” Slade says. “Finished his work, took out about thirty of the Talons and then left. Alfred and Thompkins are fine. Manor is a bit... worse for the wear, but the cave wasn’t breached.”

Bruce should have already known that, because Jason’s in the other bed, but he still breathes a sigh of relief anyway.

“And everyone else?”

“They kept the Talons out of the subway platform. A bit after you warned them about the Court members being there, they started to get overwhelmed. Dick nearly lost his arm and they couldn’t cover the hole fast enough, and then Superman zipped in and joined the fray. Cleared them all the way back to the street before leaving everyone to mop up the remainder and getting back to Talon hunting.”

Bruce exhales.

“No deaths?”

“Some civilian,” Slade admits. “We didn’t know everyone the Talons were going to go after, and Superman and Deadshot couldn’t take them all out at once.”

“How many?”

“Thirteen, but we expect to find a few more. There’s probably some who holed up in their houses and just haven’t been found yet.”

Bruce manages a weak nod. It’s better than it could have been.

“And the court?”

“Dead or captured,” Slade says. “A few weren’t down in the subway platform, and the boys went and rounded them up. They-”

“Master Bruce!” Alfred calls. Bruce turns his head slightly, and spots Alfred by the door, holding a tray of food. He shoots Slade an angry look, sweeping into the room to set the tray down.

“Mr. Wilson,” Alfred says chidingly. “You told me you would alert me if Master Bruce awoke.”

“He hasn’t been awake long,” Slade says with a wince. “I was just filling him in.”

Alfred  _hmmms_  disapprovingly.

“I’ll alert the others that you have regained consciousness.”

He pats Bruce’s leg and steps to the side to make some calls.

“Is Superman..?”

“Already back in Metropolis,” Slade says. “Apparently, and this is an exact quote, he’s more scared of what his wife will do to him if he lets Superboy miss school than he is any Talon.”

Bruce can see that.

“He said he’d visit,” Slade adds. “We exchanged numbers.”

Bruce manages a small nod, and Slade reaches down, giving him a bit more water.

“Jason?” Bruce asks when he pulls away.

“Still the same,” Slade says. “We’re keeping an eye on him.”

“Father!” Damian yells far too loudly from the door, sprinting into the room to stop at Bruce’s bedside. “You are awake.”

“Alfred’s just letting people know,” Bruce says. The water’s helping, and he feels a little bit less dead. He waves, and Alfred seems to know what he wants better than he does, because he steps up, pressing the button to raise the head of the bed, giving Bruce a better look at him.

Damian looks like he’s been through a meatgrinder. There’s a bandage on his temple, and bruises peeking out from under his clothes. He’s wearing long sleeves, which Bruce suspects is to hide the damage.

Damian seems to catch his look and shakes his head.

“I am fine, father,” he says. “Nothing worse than a training injury. Dick is the one who took the most damage. They’re putting a cast on him now, but he doesn’t like it at all.”

A cast that limits movement sounds like an absolute nightmare for Dick.

“I don’t imagine he would,” Bruce says. “What’s happening now?”

Damian nods.

“You are recovering, as is Dick. Tim will come visit you, I’m sure, and then he’s going to go back to Bludhaven to fetch Barbara.”

“Everyone else...?”

“Mister Gordon is working himself to death, I’m afraid,” Alfred says with a shake of his head. “He’s taken direct control of the captured court members, including their ringleader, in order to ensure that no corruption enables them to escape.”

Their ringleader. Slade’s daughter. He wonders what he told them. He wonders if any of them know.

He keeps his mouth shut.

“Mister Lane is helping Wayne Outreach coordinate relief efforts,” Alfred adds. “With Master Jason unable to be reached, he’s handling things in order to ensure repairs are managed and everyone is located. From what I understand, they are going door to door where people cannot be reached in order to make sure that there are no further bodies to be found.”

Bruce nods, and Slade slips him a piece of muffin.

“We have oatmeal,” Alfred protests, taking the muffin back. “You must not push him too hard. He needs to recover.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce protests, which isn’t terribly convincing to say while laid up in bed.

Tim pops his head in the door, and a nurse bustles in, frowning at how many people there are. It’s a large room, but he’s also fairly sure that in most situations like this there’s a strict limit for guests which they are now exceeding.

Tim waits patiently as the nurse checks all of Bruce’s vitals, hanging a new IV bag before finally leaving.

“Tim,” Bruce says. “How’s Barbara?”

“Unharmed,” Tim says. “Bludhaven had a quiet night. Everyone was too busy watching the news to commit any crime, apparently.”

“Small mercies,” Alfred murmurs beside him.

“And you?”

Tim looks a bit better than Damian, but the way he’s favoring his left leg makes Bruce suspect he’s just as badly bruised.

“I’ll be just fine,” he says. “I’m going to grab Stephanie and head up to get Barbara back before Dick’s trainees drive her insane.”

Bruce nods, clearing his throat, and Tim grins at him.

“Maybe you’ll actually take a vacation for once now that this is over.”

“He’s  _injured_ ,” Slade says, “not dead. He’ll never take a vacation.”

Bruce laughs so hard it hurts his already aching ribs.

Dick shows up a little while later, his arm bound tightly in a cast. He looks extremely unhappy with it, but Damian reminds him several times that he’s lucky to still have the arm. He can’t drive himself back to Bludhaven on his own, so he elicits a promise to be kept up to date on things from everyone in the room before Duke finally shows up to drive him.

“I can’t believe I’m letting him drive my car,” Dick complains as he slinks out of the room.

Jim visits close to noon. Bruce is expecting him to glare at Slade, but he doesn’t. In fact, Bruce realizes, he’s not acknowledging him at all, averting his eyes at every opportunity.

He’s giving himself plausible deniability to say  _no, I never saw him_  if asked.

“Well this is a mess,” he says when he sees Bruce’s side. “You think they’ll manage to keep you in bed for a whole day?”

“No,” Bruce says, which earns him a glare from Alfred.

“Master Bruce,” he says. “I must insist-”

“He’s staying in bed,” Slade says. “He doesn’t get an option.”

That brings the argument to an end.

Jim leaves not long after to get back to work.

Michael visits closer to dinner, bringing bags of food and a complaint about hospital food with him. They eat together, and only once it’s good and dark is there any other discussion.

“I will take the boys back to the manor,” Alfred says. “The damage to the entrance-way is quite extensive, but the east wing is untouched. I think everyone would prefer to sleep in their own beds after the night we’ve had.”

He’s noticed Damian nodding off in his chair, so Bruce nods.

“I’ll stay,” Slade says. “I don’t need to sleep.”

It’s not bravado either. Slade literally doesn’t need to sleep.

Alfred nods.

“I leave them in your hands,” Alfred says. “I’m sure you’ll have any number of visitors to keep you busy before we return tomorrow morning.”

Slade drags a chair between Jason and Bruce’s hospital beds and parks himself right there, pulling a paperback out of his pocket and settling back to read.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Bruce asks, turning his head to look at Slade.

Slade doesn’t look up from his book.

“No,” he says.

Bruce decides he has better things to do than argue. He lets it go, at least for a while, and lets himself fall asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

Visiting hours start at 9AM. Bruce knows this for a fact because the nurse has told him it no less than three times, as if he could somehow telepathically inform everyone who is apparently trying to visit him.

He doesn’t have a phone.

Slade does, but Slade is definitely making no attempt to tell anyone anything.

The nurses drop off breakfast for Bruce, and he chokes down some of the worst hospital food he’s ever tasted just to make Slade stop nudging it at him.

“Disgusting,” Bruce says when the nurse is gone. “What do they put in this?”

“Nutrients,” Slade says. “Or something like that.”

Bruce refuses any more painkillers, and they end up taking out the IV. His side aches, but he’s had so much worse. The pain’s nothing compared to what he’s used to.

When the door opens, Bruce thinks it’s nothing. Another nurse. It’s still an hour before anyone’s allowed to visit, and it’s only Slade’s head suddenly jerking up that makes Bruce look.

He’s never met her before, but Bruce knows her by reputation.  _The Wall_. Amanda Waller, in the flesh, scowling at the pair of them as she closes the door behind her.

He has no idea how she got in, but he suspects the nurses aren’t going to be coming to rescue them.

“Waller,” Slade says, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “If you try anything, you die.”

There’s no theatrics to it, no screwing around. It’s a threat, plain and simple, and Waller narrows her eyes at him.

“You’re trying my patience already Wilson,” she says.

Bruce isn’t expecting her to grab a chair, but she does, setting it just a few feet away from Slade. Slade looks ready to spring, like if she says one word out of line he’ll simply take her head off. Bruce knows enough about Waller to guess at why, and he  _knows_  that Slade was recruited for the suicide squad once in the past.

Bruce sits up a bit more, and Slade’s too focused on Waller to even chide him for it.

Waller folds her leg over her knee, and digs into an inner pocket on her jacket. Slade’s ready to  _move_ , but in the end she simply pulls out what looks like a lipstick, pressing her thumb to the end.

The stick lights up, and Bruce feels his ears pop.

“Blocker?” Bruce guesses, and Waller nods.

“To make absolutely sure no one will be recording.”

Bruce doesn’t think the hospital is, but he also suspects Waller’s more concerned about  _him_. Everything he knows about the Suicide Squad is that it’s barely legal at best.

“I know who you are, Wayne,” she says, her eyes flicking over to him. “Although I have to say your identity was quite a surprise.”

Bruce keeps his expression blank. He finds it’s easier to do with the pain from his side keeping him grounded in the moment.

“Do you know how I found out? I found out because when I started digging through the records, I found the Court had been covering a lot of things up. One of them was you. The investigation at Wayne Enterprises  _should_  have lead back to Batman, and instead they buried the evidence to keep you hidden.”

Waller leans back in her chair.

“Let me be clear,” Waller says. “Everything we discuss here is confidential. If you speak of it to anyone, the agreement’s null and void.”

 _The agreement_. That means she’s here to make a deal, and Bruce can imagine why. They’ve seen a lot. The corruption runs deep. And now the government’s sent in Waller to mop up the mess.

“I’ve been sent on behalf of the US government to clear the air,” Waller says, confirming Bruce’s suspicions. “There’s a lot of loose ends, and the government doesn’t  _like_  lose ends. We’re taking control of the members of the Court, and handling the case against them on a federal level. Gotham City Council’s almost entirely empty. Only  _two_  of the members weren’t connected to the Court of Owls, and one of those is dead.”

Which means there’s no city government to speak of anymore. Bruce isn’t surprised to hear the government’s cracking down.

“The city is in a state of emergency until that’s rectified,” she adds.

“Get to the point,” Slade snaps. He doesn’t like Waller, and it’s obvious she’s straining his patience.

She rolls her eyes.

“Play nice, Wilson,” she says, “and you might just get something out of it.”

Slade bares his teeth at her.

“The nature of this crisis means that I’ve been promoted,” she says. “Task Force X has been placed under control of the Department of Extranormal Operations, who have received a significant budget increase, and a mission update. We now handle any and all costumed vigilantes and criminals, even if their supernatural nature has not yet been confirmed.”

Which means Batman, Bruce realizes.

“And you’re in charge,” he says.

“And I’m in charge,” Waller confirms. “So I’m here to make a deal.”

They know a lot. Probably too much, depending on how much the government plans to cover up. So Waller’s here to buy their silence.

Bruce hopes she has a big wallet, because Bruce isn’t easily bought. Not when Gotham almost fell. Not when people died.

“Just tell us what you’re after,” Slade says.

“The official story,” Waller says, “is going to be that the Court of Owls operated alone. They engineered this crisis and carried it out without any outside help. Plenty of them are already dead, and most of the remaining are getting plea deals-”

Slade  _growls_ , and Waller rolls her eyes.

“Calm down,” she snaps. “They’re offering their assistance to be  _kept_  in prison, not to get out. They’re worried about being killed before they can testify by the Court’s allies.”

Bruce doesn’t know who the Court’s allies are, but he knows he can find out. Someone has to have helped them with the technology to make the Talons. Someone had to be helping them smuggle Slade out of prison for who knows what reason.

But Waller doesn’t know that. Waller obviously thinks they’re already aware of the allies, so Bruce is careful with his choice of words.

“The Court’s taking the fall,” he says. “And their members are being prosecuted at the federal level. What’s happening to their allies? You can’t expect me to be alright with letting them go.”

“We aren’t letting them go,” Waller says. “The Court’s only real aims were to gain complete control of Gotham, and to demonstrate the value of their Talons. The splinter of the military who were interested in purchasing the Talons was a rogue agent. Their leaders have already been arrested, and the entire program--to produce super-soldiers--has been shuttered.”

The military. Bruce slots that into what he knows. The unmarked but military-esque convoy. The strong focus on covering up Slade’s identity and involvement. Slade’s identity leaking out would mean the media focusing on the people who  _gave_  him his abilities, and that was the last thing he wants.

“Are they the same people who did me?” Slade asks. It’s his first real involvement in the proceedings.

“Their successors,” Waller says. “The military’s been trying to replicate their success with you for years, but with no real progress. When they collaborated with the Court, the Court was able to provide access to something they didn’t have before: A second sample of super-soldier genetics. Having a second point of reference provided a springboard for their research, but it posed... significant problems.”

“They went insane,” Slade says. Bruce has no idea how he knows that, but he suspects it has to do with the original experiment.

Waller nods. Bruce suspects she’s happy for confirmation from Slade. Even if he’s not saying much, she’s still getting information from him. He doubts many people are still around and willing to talk who were part of the original experiments.

“Insane super-soldiers aren’t useful,” Waller says. “But the Court offered an alternative to that, too. The Court told them they could overcome the insanity, and offered their conquest of Gotham as a demonstration. It’s debatable if the military would have actually followed through and purchased any Talons if they had known what the  _solution_  to insanity was.”

It’s hard to be insane when you’re missing parts of your brain, being jerked around like a marionette.

“Don’t try and act like they wouldn’t have bought, Waller,” Slade says. “They’d have made a big fat purchase and sent them off to fight for them. Or maybe they’d have used the Talons personally to get rid of their enemies  _within_  the country, just like the Court did.”

Waller doesn’t argue the point. Bruce is pretty sure she agrees with Slade.

“And the other parties?” Bruce asks.

Waller frowns, just for a moment.

“The Court’s primary agent has been taken into custody by the DEO. They will likely never receive official sentencing, but they’re cooperating with us, so we’ll see how things pan out.”

She doesn’t say who she is. Bruce has no doubt that she  _knows_. She’s just smart enough to notice the twitch in Slade’s jaw, the way he looks moments away from slugging her if she so much as thinks about saying the word  _daughter_.

“And the fourth?” Bruce asks.

Waller raises an eyebrow.

“You’d have to be more specific, Mr. Wayne,” she says. “Officially, the DEO only recognizes three parties. The Court, who experimented on and produced the Talons before using them to try and take Gotham, their agent, who provided samples of their genetic material in order to allow the super-soldier experiments to continue, and the rogue agency within the US Military, who provided the Court with data on their super-soldier experiments in order to allow the creation of Talons, and who had promised to purchase Talons from them and fund the Court through the future.”

“The Court was the political elite of Gotham,” Bruce says. “They forced people to work for them, but designing, testing, and implementing such precise micro-circuitry in order to allow them to control the Talons is beyond their skill level.”

Waller’s eyes narrow. She’s either thinking  _how did he know that? It was supposed to be a secret!_ or something like  _why didn’t I think of that?_

“We’ll look into it,” Waller says. “None of our sources have explained where the circuitry came from, but you’re correct: It doesn’t fit with their capabilities.”

Bruce is just happy she didn’t brush it off entirely. It means she’s taking it seriously: She doesn’t want any loose ends.

“What are we getting out of it?” Bruce asks. “You’ve come here to ask for our compliance--and the compliance of all my people--so I assume you have something good to offer.”

Bruce has all but decided to make a deal. He knows what he wants, but it’s going to be a matter of getting Waller to agree to it. Playing hard ball and pretending like he’s going to go to the press with what he knows.

But he doesn’t actually feel the need. What matters is that the Court is being held accountable, and that their allies are being dealt with. Revealing that what happened was partially the fault of a section of the US military has no real advantage. Everyone involved is already being dealt with. Revealing it now would just damage those who  _weren’t_  corrupt, who now have to step into place and manage things on their own.

He has no bone to pick. He doesn’t believe in truth over all. Bruce recognizes the value of a comforting lie.

“Bringing Superman in saved a lot of lives,” Waller says, “but it also crossed a line. You can expect to see increased DEO presence in these sorts of matters. Your cooperation on this matter would be a good step towards proving that you and yours aren’t a threat, and don’t require a DEO intervention.”

Which basically means  _you scratch my back, and I won’t have to stab yours_.

Bruce isn’t sold, and he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Waller clears her throat.

“The mercenary Deathstroke will be declared dead later this afternoon,” Waller says. “Deathstroke and Slade Wilson will be considered to be two independent entities, and any and all outstanding warrants for Slade Wilson will be redirected to Deathstroke instead.”

It’s what Bruce wants. It’s the best thing Waller could have offered them. It takes all his control to not just say  _yes_ ,  _do it_. To let Slade handle it.

He wants Slade back at the manor. He wants him to be able to walk around without having to hide his identity. He doesn’t want Jim staying away, with everyone else pretending like they don’t know that Slade’s supposed to be in jail.

“What’s the terms?” Slade asks, his face blank.

“Deathstroke has to die,” Waller says. “And I mean that. I want your suits. You can be the Gotham...” She trails off with a disapproving scowl. “The Gotham Knight. But Deathstroke has to be dead. If you try and cheat around it, or come back in any way? That’s it. The DEO will go after you with everything we have.”

His suits. Bruce makes him keep his reaction of his face. He’s not sure if Slade’s going to agree. It means giving up his work. It means no trips out of Gotham, going overseas for work.

Bruce wants it, but he’s not sure Slade wants it enough.

“Deathstroke was hired by the Court,” she says. “That’s why he killed the mayor.”

“You’re aware-” Bruce starts.

“We’re aware,” Waller cuts him off. “We’ve already collected the suit the Court’s agent used to frame you. It won’t hold up in close proximity, and we plan to use the suits to avoid any suspicion that you aren’t actually dead.”

And to ensure his compliance. 

The room’s silent. Bruce shifts his eyes off Waller to look at Slade, but he can’t read him. He can’t see his good eye, and the eye-patch doesn’t give away anything. His mouth is set in a grim line as he thinks it over.

He wants to ask. He wants to talk. But the less Waller knows, the better.

So he waits, even if it’s eating him up inside.

“I accept,” Slade finally says after what feels like days but can’t be more than a minute or two.

“Good,” Waller says. “This deal is entirely under the table, but let me be clear: I’ll keep to my side of it as long as you keep to yours. Lord knows we’d all be better off with one less super-powered mercenary running around.”

She pushes herself to her feet, shaking her head as she straightens out.

“The DEO will be sending a van to collect the Talon corpses from the manor,” she says. “Make sure some of the body bags include your armor.”

Her eyes flick over to Bruce, and she gives him a small nod.

“Speedy recovery, Mr. Wayne,” Waller says, and then finally leaves the room.


	35. Chapter 35

Clark shows up less than a minute after Waller’s left. Bruce isn’t sure exactly what time it is, and suspects he’s snuck in early.

“Everything alright?” He asks, leaning in the door.

He’s wearing his glasses and a suit, and looks no worse for the wear despite everything that happened the night before. He looks like he literally just stepped out of the office, and he has the handle of a giftbasket clasped in one hand.

“Mmm,” Slade says as he looks Clark over. “Should have expected you weren’t going to come in costume.”

“If you can keep Bruce’s secret, I imagine you can be trusted to keep mine,” Clark says with a smile. He steps in, dropping the gift basket onto the table at the foot of Bruce’s bed. It seems to be filled with a variety of snacks, and the card sticking out the top says GET WELL SOON, LOVE THE KENTS just below it.

Someone--probably Jon--has drawn a tiny bat in the corner that’s been hastily scribbled over,

“You were listening in,” Bruce says. Waller’s defenses might have stopped any of them from recording the conversation, but there’s no way it stopped Clark from being able to hear.

“I was standing just under your window,” Clark says. “Just in case I was needed.”

“Were you going to just fly in here like that?” Slade asks, and Clark reaches up, pulling the collar of his shirt down to reveal a flash of blue.

Slade grunts.

“Sounds like things are going to get a bit messy,” Clark says. “But at least we have allies now. It’s good to know we have people who we can reach out to.”

Clark is overwhelmingly positive, and his plucky nature is already wearing on Bruce. 

“How’s Jon?” He asks, because at least that’s a subject he can handle.

“Ecstatic to have a friend he’s allowed to fly around,” Clark says. “I think they’ve said a dozen words to him and he’s already decided that Shrik-”

“Damian,” Bruce corrects.

“That Damian’s his best friend,” Clark finishes. “He wanted to come, but I told him he couldn’t skip school.”

“Mmm. Good for him to have some grounding,” Bruce says. Something Damian doesn’t quite have. Maybe playdates with Jon wouldn’t be too bad for him.

“I’m going to be the one getting grounded if Lois finds out how things went,” Clark says. “He was supposed to stay with me.”

“A lot more people would have died if he hadn’t been there to help hold the subway platform,” Bruce says.

“Nightwing said he did well for himself,” Slade adds.

“I’m not here for long,” Clark says. “Work sent me up here to report on what’s happening. Even in Metropolis, everyone’s heard of what happened, and the Planet had some of the first coverage of it.” He grins a big wide smile at that.

“Of course,” Bruce says. “Where are you headed?”

“Down to Gotham General Hospital,” Clark says. “The hospital won’t confirm nor deny if they’re still treating the Batman, but they  _are_  treating several people injured in the attacks, and the vigil’s a good human interest piece.”

“The vigil?” Bruce asks.

“Hold on,” Clark says, pulling out his phone. “I sent Jimmy on ahead to take photos.”

He flips through, finally turning the phone and holding it up for Bruce to see.

The front wall of Gotham General’s been taken over. There’s flowers and candles laid out on the ground, and on the wall are notes and messages. Some are written directly on the rock, while others are pasted up on notes and posters.

GOTHAM SUPPORTS BATMAN is the largest, standing just above eye level, painted in bright red letters.

“It’s quite a scene,” Clark says. “Most of the other involved places are still cordoned off by the police, and they’re not answering any questions. Supposedly they’re having a press conference this afternoon, but until then it’s all hearsay.”

Bruce can only imagine what the news is saying.

“Send me the photos,” Bruce says, “if you can.”

“Of course,” Clark says. “I’ll get your number from Alfred.”

Bruce is having a hard time mustering up any sort of surprise at how quickly Clark’s becoming a friend to the family. He already has Alfred’s number?

“I should get going,” Clark adds. “I technically snuck in here. Alfred and the others will be up soon though, I saw them in the lobby.”

He actually look  _embarrassed_  to admit he snuck in.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Bruce says, giving him a small nod as Slade digs into the gift basket, emerging with a bag of roasted almonds. He doesn’t make any attempt to share them with Bruce, returning to his seat and keeping them for himself.

“You should go eat,” Bruce says pointedly at Slade when Clark’s left. “When Alfred gets here-”

“I can’t leave you alone for a second without something happening,” Slade says, popping an almond into his mouth. “I’m not leaving either of you alone until I know you’re fine.”

Slade’s good to his word. He doesn’t leave the room for the entire rest of the day, instead giving Alfred instructions on how to turn over his suits to the DEO. Bruce doesn’t mention the third one, and notes that Slade doesn’t either.

Just in case, he decides.

They watch the news together, watching the press conference. It’s Jim doing the talking, but the speech itself has Waller’s fingerprints all over it. The military isn’t mentioned. Everything falls onto the Court’s heads. The death toll is seventeen, and not expected to rise any higher. Jim credits the minimal death-toll to the intervention of ‘well meaning citizens’, and a man standing just behind him wearing a DEO badge wrinkles his nose.

It doesn’t matter. Even if neither Batman nor Superman are mentioned in the conference, everyone knows. There are photos and homemade videos of what happened. A grainy shot from an apartment, showing Superman zipping down so fast the person holding the phone can’t keep up, slapping the Talon out of the air. A ground shot--likely from a GCPD officer--filming a Talon simply falling from the sky.

The one that they play over and over, released the day after, is a recording of what happened at the doors of the subway station. The way Shrike runs back inside. The way the doors are sealed. And then the constant ominous  _pounding_  as the doors struggle to hold the things outside.

And then Jon Kent, alias Superboy, shoulder checking the doors so hard they go flying.

The person filming drops the camera, and that’s the only reason there’s not more.

Bruce suspects there’s a lot more footage, but none of it makes it to the media. Either Waller’s intervened, or people have decided to keep it to themselves.

Deathstroke is barely mentioned, a footnote in the grand explanation of what happened in Gotham. He’s dead, and can be safely ignored. Any other day, his death would be world-shattering news to the country, the death of the man known as the deadliest mercenary in the business. In light of what’s happened with Gotham, it’s little more than a ripple. Bruce is sure that some people care, but what the mercenaries of the world feel about it hardly matters to him.


	36. Chapter 36

Bruce goes home the second night. The doctors want him to stay longer, but Bruce isn’t having it. He’s going crazy being confined to the hospital room, and he’s already good enough to walk. He’s not running any marathons, but he thinks that the concern is largely unwarranted.

It’s a bit harder to convince them to let Jason go, but Alfred explains all the preparations they’ve made, and they finally let him go home. They take them out back to avoid the media out front, loading Jason into an ambulance. Slade scowls at having to choose, but Bruce ushers him into the back, letting Alfred drive him back to the Manor with Damian beside him.

The only reason Damian isn’t at his side as much as Slade is because he needs to sleep.

The front entrance of the manor has extensive damage. The doors are recently repaired, but the inside still has heavy gouges. There’s a bloodstain to one side, and another one farther down the hall, but once he’s past the entrance it’s easier to ignore.

They move Jason into his old room, the one that became the reading room. It has the least furniture, and it’s easy enough for Alfred to move what there is to the corner, making space for the hospital bed and all the equipment. He’s breathing on his own, which makes it a bit easier, but there’s still all the monitoring equipment to make space for.

Slade takes one of the reading room chairs and positions it right beside Jason’s bed.

Bruce, on the other hand, lets himself enjoy a shower. The damage to his side isn’t as bad as he expected when he peels back the damage, but he’s sure he’s going to add a particularly nasty scar to his already expansive collection. He checks it over, and then lets Alfred re-bandage him with something that’s less stiff and easier to move in.

Alfred attempts to get him to use a cane, and Bruce brushes it off.

“I’ve had worse,” he points out, which is true, but still doesn’t make Alfred relax at all.

He moves in short bursts. Any time he tries to walk the full length of the house, he ends up winded, but he can make it from his room to the kitchen, or from the living room to Jason’s room without too much trouble.

His second day back in the house he goes to lunch to discover that Damian and Alfred have conspired together to cover the entire wall of the living room in a blown up version of the photo Clark’s sent them: The mural at Gotham General Hospital. He spends almost an hour there, reading over all the notes.

He leaves Jason in Slade’s care and drives down himself that afternoon.

The fact that he’s injured is no secret, but he knows Lucius has remained vague about how bad his injury is. He’s sure a hundred photos are taken of him in the time it takes for him to approach the vigil--still littered with people leaving messages and flowers even days after the fact--and lay a flower of his own down onto the pile.

He doesn’t stay out long.

Jim visits that evening, and Bruce meets him in the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” Jim asks.

“Exhausted,” Bruce says. “Like I lost half the blood in my body and they had to pump me back full again.”

Jim laughs a bit at that, and then glances around.

“Wilson still here...?”

“He’s here,” Bruce confirms. “He’s living in Jason’s room right now.”

Jim frowns at that, nodding once.

“Still asleep..?”

“Still asleep,” Bruce confirms.

“Hmmm,” Jim says. “Well, I’ll leave Wilson to it. But let him know that all the warrants for his arrest mysteriously vanished. Officially--and I mean this, because all our paperwork about it is gone--he’s a free man.”

“Funny how that happens,” Bruce says with a smile of his own.

Jim scowls at him.

Alfred invites Jim for dinner, but he declines, heading back to work.

Before he goes to bed, Bruce visits Jason again. More than that: He visits Slade. Slade hasn’t slept at all. Bruce hasn’t seen him leave the room either. He barely eats, and yet he looks absolutely no worse for the wear.

“Slade,” Bruce says, taking his seat by the bed. “You need to rest.”

“Actually,” Slade says, not looking up from his book. “It might surprise you to learn that I can go five days without sleep before I begin to feel the effects, and we’re not there yet.”

“You know what I mean,” Bruce says. “You can’t just sit here forever.”

“I can,” Slade says. “And I will.”

Bruce knows why he’s doing it. It’s penance. He’s punishing himself. Slade feels responsible for what happened, like Jason’s injuries are his fault, and he’s going to sit there and suffer for it to try and make it up to him.

Bruce has done similar things.

“Slade,” he says. “Did you know about her?”

Slade doesn’t answer. He flips the page of his book, but his eye is unmoving on the page. He’s not reading. He’s thinking.

There’s only one her he’d be asking about.

Slade is silent so long that Bruce feels the need to reach out, pulling the book away and taking Slade’s hand.

“Talk to me,” he says, and Slade does.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t know about her. But it wouldn’t matter anyway. She’s not - she’s not  _anything_  to me. I know you’re going to try and-”

Bruce squeezes his hand and cuts him off.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t try and tell me how I’m going to react.”

Slade actually  _looks_  at him for the first time since he came into the room, his eyebrows pressed together in a hard line.

“We both know how this is going to go,” Slade says. “You’re going to tell me about the importance of family, about how she probably had a -”

“Slade,” Bruce says. “She’s not a child. She’s not even a teenager. She’s... what, thirty years old? She’s a grown woman. She made this choice. If she had come to you and tried to have a life with you, then yes, absolutely. I’d have been the first one to tell you that you needed to try. I’d have pushed you, because I think that family’s important. But that wasn’t what she did. What she  _did_  is try and kill Jason. What she  _did_ was help the Court nearly destroy Gotham. If you want to cut her out, you can.”

Slade stares at him, almost uncomprehending, and Bruce makes himself take a breath.

“I’m going to see if I can see her,” Bruce says. “Because I want to understand why she did what she did. But you don’t have to see her. I won’t even mention her to you. And if you want to... to not tell anyone, then I won’t make you.”

He doesn’t like the idea of Slade keeping secrets from them, especially Jason, but he doesn’t like the idea of forcing him either. If Slade isn’t ready, then Slade isn’t ready.

“I’ll talk to them,” Slade says. “Eventually. Or at least Jason.”

“I’m going to see her,” Bruce says again, because he’s not sure if Slade even heard him the first time.

Slade doesn’t speak, but he does finally nod.

Bruce gives him a small smile.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to leave Jason in my care?” He asks. “So you can rest. Eat. All those things.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Slade says. “We’ll see how I’m feeling.”


	37. Chapter 37

Tim visits the next day, but not before asking three separate times to make absolutely sure that Bruce is up for it.

“He’s walking,” Tim says, with the tone of someone announcing that there’s been a murder.

“Running,” Barbara calls from the background.

“We can handle it,” Bruce says. “Or at least Damian can.”

Damian scowls at him over the table.

“Father,” he protests. “Just because you are injured does not mean you can volunteer me to watch a baby.”

“He’d be a toddler, not a baby,” Bruce corrects, turning his attention back to the phone. “Come anytime.”

They show up before lunch, all three of them, and Bruce regrets his decision almost immediately.

Jackson spends the  _entire_  visit screaming. They scream when Bruce attempts to pick them up. They scream when Damian makes faces at them.

“They’re cranky,” Barbara explains. “They didn’t like moving around so much, and they  _hated_  Dick’s house.”

Tim swings his head around, squinting.

“Slade?” He asks.

“Mister Wilson is keeping a vigil by Master Jason’s bed,” Alfred says. “I have attempted to lure him out, but I have had little success.”

Tim looks down at the screaming child in his arms and decides that it’s probably not worth attempting to lure him out.

“How’s he doing?” He asks, shifting his grip.

“Master Jason is still asleep,” Alfred says. “We’ll be sure to alert you if there’s any change to his condition.”

“You’d better,” Tim says, bouncing Jackson on his knee just long enough to get them to stop yelling.

“I’ll keep you guys updated,” Bruce says.

He tries not to think about running to hide in his room as Jackson runs up and down the hallways with Damian chasing them, yelling at the top of their lungs. He’s not sure how it’s possible for them to yell so much. How do they have the lung capacity?

Bruce’s phone rings and he’s thankful for some kind of distraction from the chaos as Damian attempts to wrangle a squirmy Jackson, but when he checks the caller ID his heart stops.

Slade’s calling him.

Bruce drops his phone and bolts out of his seat. He’s not sure he’s ever made the trip to the reading room faster in his entire life.

Jason’s awake. He’s awake, propped up on the pillows, and shooting daggers at Bruce when he slams the door open.

“Jason!”

“Volume,” Slade says. “He’s already complaining about the noise.”

“I should have stayed asleep,” Jason says. His voice is raspy and quiet, but it’s still his voice, and Bruce feels a flood of relief.

Even if he told himself over and over that things would be fine, and that Jason would wake up, there was still that fear. That quiet voice in the back of his mind asking  _what if he doesn’t?_

“How do you feel?” Bruce asks, trying to be a bit more quiet as he closes the door behind him, taking a seat beside Jason’s bed.

“Like I just went eight rounds with a steamroller,” Jason says.

He’s a lot more awake than Bruce expected, and he squints over at Slade.

“How long has he been awake?” He asks as Slade gives Jason a bit of water.

Slade at least has the self awareness to look a bit guilty.

“A little bit,” he says. “The noise woke him up. We can hear it even down here.”

“Jackson didn’t like Dick’s house,” Bruce says.

“Jackson doesn’t like that his favorite grandpa didn’t come see him,” Slade says with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head.

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Do they know I’m up?” Jason asks.

“They saw me break my phone when I saw Slade was calling,” Bruce says, “so I’m sure they’ve figured it out.”

“Next time,” Slade says. “Learn to run  _with_  your phone.”

Bruce can’t help but squint at Slade suspiciously.

“Is this the first time he’s been awake?”

Slade says _yes_  at the same time Jason says  _no_ , and then it’s Slade’s turn to squint suspiciously.

“Woke up when you were... I don’t know. Moving me? The bed was rocking around and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Ambulance? I kind of looked around a bit and then decided it wasn’t worth the effort and went back to sleep.

Slade scowls.

“I was right there,” he says. “They let me ride with you back to the manor.”

Bruce reaches up, brushing Jason’s hair from his eyes, and for once Jason tolerates the gesture without complaint, nuzzling down into the bed.

“How bad is it?” He asks.

“You’ve got a lot of scars,” Slade says. “You should see the one Bruce’s got now.”

“He doesn’t need to know about that,” Bruce says, scowling at Slade. He doesn’t know what Slade has or hasn’t told him, but  _Bruce nearly died of blood loss because he didn’t realize how badly he was hurt_  doesn’t need to be one of the first things Jason hears.

“Oh,” Jason says. “But I do.”

He takes another sip of water, coughing raggedly and taking a moment to recover. He sags back into the bed, looking exhausted just from the effort of taking a drink.

“You can see it when you’re up and about,” Bruce says. “I promi-”

There’s a knock at the door, and Alfred peeks in.

“Oh good,” he says. “I was quite concerned something had gone wrong. We have quite a debate about whether Mister Wilson’s summons were of the  _he’s awake_  or the  _help is needed_  variety.”

“We’re fine,” Slade says. “Just talking a bit. I’ll kick Bruce out again in a little bit.”

“Please,” Alfred says, “there’s no need to hurry. Take all the time you need.”

Bruce glances back to Jason, but his eyes are already closed. He sits there for a moment, watching him breath, and decides he’s probably not faking--just exhausted.

“Good,” Bruce says. “Now you can go take a shower.” He makes a pointed look to Slade. “You’re starting to smell after so long sitting here.”

Slade grunts at him and pushes himself to his feet.

“Fine,” he says. “But you stay here. One of us should-”

“Be with him,” Bruce says. “I get it.”

Alfred gives them a smile and excuses himself, and Slade leaves a moment later, leaving Bruce behind to watch over Jason as he sleeps.


	38. Chapter 38

In the end, Bruce knows that Slade won’t go. He’s made his thoughts clear, and there’s no point on trying to push him.

But Bruce himself? He’ll go. He has to know. Even if it means booking a flight to Louisiana.

“So,” Bruce says as he walks beside a particularly annoyed looking Amanda Waller. “What’s the official reason for this visit?”

She shoots him a look.

“Our facility uses several WayneTech components,” Waller explains, like she’s having to lecture a child. “You are coming to sign an agreement with me about purchasing more.”

“Which Lucius has already signed.”

“Which Mr. Fox has already signed,” Waller confirms.

She accepted his request too easily.  _Let me speak to the Court of Owl’s agent_ , he had said.  _Let me question them_.

She hadn’t even asked for anything, which meant she was already getting something out of it. Amanda Waller didn’t do anything out of the goodness of her heart.

Bruce was going to have to be careful with his words.

She's already waiting for him when Waller lets him into the room, sitting on a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor at a table that’s  _also_  bolted to the floor. Her arms are wrapped in the same type of full arm cuff that once held Slade, and Bruce notes a metal collar around her throat.

Probably an explosive to make  _absolutely_  sure she doesn’t get away.

It’s at that point that Bruce realizes he has no idea what her name is. He’s spent all his time thinking of her as  _the woman who hurt Jason_  or  _the Court’s representative_ or  _Slade’s daughter_. She never introduced herself, and Bruce frowns a bit before he finally takes a seat on his own (also, unfortunately, bolted to the floor) chair across from her.

Her cuffs don’t  _look_  attached to the table, but she doesn’t move them at all either. Bruce suspects it’s some kind of magnetic assembly, saving the guards from having to latch her into place.

Belle Reve Penitentiary is a world away from Blackgate in terms of security.

“I just realized I don’t know your name,” Bruce says. He hopes some honesty might endear him to her, or at least get her to open up a bit.

She scowls at him. They haven’t given her an eye patch, but there’s gauze taped over her left eye, and Bruce does his best not to stare at it. He’s seen enough of Slade’s missing eye that he doesn’t want to see what’s under it.

“You already know me,” Bruce points out. “So it only seems fair.”

“Rose,” she says. “Rose Worth.”

Bruce makes a note to look her up, to dig into his own files. He doubts he’ll find much. She was with the League for at least a few years, and the League of Assassins was never big on paper trails.

“You’re already planning to look me up,” she says.

“I see I’m becoming predictable,” Bruce says. He tries to smile. Tries to be relatable. But all he can see in her is Slade. The same eye. The same scowl. She takes strongly after him.

From what little he knows of her, he’s sure she hates that.

“Before anything else,” Bruce says. “I want to know what happened to someone.”

It’s a risk asking it on camera (because Bruce doesn’t doubt for a moment that Waller is watching the entire encounter from a security room), but he’s already weighed his options. This is the only way he’s going to get any answers. It’s the only way Damian is going to get any closure.

“And who would that be?” She asks.

“Nyssa,” he says. He leaves off her last name, and Rose smiles at him.

“Dead,” she says. “Probably killed by your boy in blue, if I had to guess.”

Superman. Which means...

“You turned them into Talons.”

He’s sure Waller is losing her mind, demanding to know who _Nyssa_  is. He’s not sure she’ll be able to make the connection.

“Of course,” she says. “The Court needed nice strong bodies. People who already had fighting skills. But Nyssa and hers were poor subjects. Not enough physical strength, and finesse doesn’t translate well.”

Dead then. Bruce shakes his head. She seems to be going out of her way to make it painful as possible. If anything, she seems to enjoy it.

The door behind her opens, and a guard steps in, dropping a manila envelope down on the table. Not in front of Bruce, but instead directly in front of Rose.

Bruce stares at it, but Rose doesn’t speak until the guard’s left.

“That’s my hint to stop wasting time, I guess,” she says. “So go on. Ask your question.”

They both know the question, but he makes himself ask it anyway.

“Why?” He asks. “Why go after him?”

Not Slade. Just  _him_ , because the less incriminating the tape is, the better. So no names if he can help it.

“Because he never came back,” she says, leaning forward as much as she’s able. “Because he’s scum.”

Bruce is very firmly of the opinion that a deadbeat dad isn’t a reason to murder people, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“He didn’t know about you,” he points out.

Rose throws her head back and laughs.

“You believe that?” She says. “Of course he’d say that. Doesn’t want you to think too badly of him for abandoning us.”

“You and who exactly?”

Bruce prays there isn’t another one. What if she has siblings? How many children does Slade  _have_?

“He’s scum,” she says, leaning forward again. “Human garbage. He came to my mother injured, and she nursed him back to health. Hid him from the soldiers while he recovered. She saved him, and he told her he’d fallen in love with her.”

The story doesn’t add up, but Rose doesn’t stop talking long enough for him to think about it right then.

“He said he had to leave for work. He left her behind, and promised he would come back for her. But he stayed away. He sent her letters for me and her, always promising he’d return. But something always came up. When my mother died, I went through her things. I found his name, and I found out who he was. The mercenary Deathstroke.”

She bares her teeth.

“I read my mother’s letters. I learned about his life. About the wife he had, the place he lived. He’d promised to leave her, to come back to my mother, only he’d never come. So I left home and went to find him. I sought him out, trying to find out why he’d ignored us. Why he’d broken his promise.”

Bruce swallows the lump in his throat.

“When I found out his son had died, I thought I might forgive him. I thought maybe he’d had a heart. Maybe he’d thrown away the chance of a normal life to throw himself into his work. I wanted to meet him, to know the truth. I sought allies. I became part of that life. I searched for him, planning to confront him. And then I found...”

She’s practically spitting in anger.

“Then I found  _you_ ,” she says. “Your sons. That  _my_  father had abandoned my mother and I not just for his first wife, but to play house with people he had no connection to. It’s disgusting.”

“Which is why you decided to kill him.”

“To  _destroy_ him,” she says. “He left my mother behind. He abandoned her. He abandoned  _me_. He doesn’t deserve happiness.”

Bruce’s eyes drop to the envelope, and Rose actually  _smirks_  at him, sliding it across the table to him.

“Here,” she says. “Read for yourself. Read what kind of man you’ve brought into your life. A liar and a cheat who’d write honeyed words to one woman, swearing to return to her, while married to another.”

Bruce opens the envelope, and letter after letter spills out.

He takes his time. He’s sure it drives Waller insane, but he doubts he’s going to get more than once chance to read them.

There’s something deeply personal about reading someone else’s love letters, but the more he reads, the deeper his sense of unease grows.

It’s the details.

The details are all wrong.

Slade talks about his life in California, the home he has there. He talks about his wife Adelyn. His daughter.

Bruce makes himself read them all, and only once he’s done does he fold the letters up. He knows why Waller accepted his request so easily. She’s already heard the story. She knows why Rose Worth hates Slade Wilson so much. She’s seen the letters. And she’s hoping that Bruce would read them and turn his back on Slade.

Slade in isolation would make a perfect target for the DEO. He knows she’d love to have Slade back on her task-force. She’s just hoping to split them down the middle.

“Rose,” he says. “I know you likely won’t believe me. You have no reason to. But you deserve to know the truth.”

He slides the letters back towards her, watching as a flicker of unease slips across her face.

“The letters aren’t real,” he says. “Your mother’s story isn’t either. There’s no denying that they slept together--” He can’t deny that, not with the proof in front of him. “--but everything else is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” she hisses, and Bruce taps the envelope.

“He didn’t have a daughter,” Bruce says. “The letter gets his wife’s name wrong. He must have told your mother it, but she only  _heard_  it. She didn’t know how to spell it properly. He didn’t live where the letters say he did.”

“He lied to her about leaving his wife,” Rose hisses. “Why wouldn’t he lie about this?”

“Because of how old you are,” Bruce says. “You’re... thirty? Maybe a bit younger?”

She doesn’t answer, frustratingly, but she doesn’t reject it either.

“He was already a super-soldier at that point,” Bruce says. “The story she told you about a handsome American soldier, wounded and in need of her charity, who fell into her arms is a sham. He wouldn’t have stayed wounded long enough to need help.”

“He was hurt!” She protests.

“He was a professional,” Bruce says. “You saw how fast he regenerates. You know how fast  _you_ regenerate. She wouldn’t have nursed him back to health. Rose, so much of this story--if not all of it--is a fabrication.”

He doesn’t know her motivations, but he can imagine them. To give her daughter a better story than  _I met a handsome man who admitted he had a wife after he slept with me, and then left the following morning_. To give her hope of something better. That her father would one day come back for her.

Rose is trembling. She’s shaking, her face twisted in rage and anguish.

She’s spent her entire life believing a lie. She’s thrown away everything she had to seek revenge on a man who didn’t even know she existed, for a crime he didn’t commit.

The door behind Bruce opens, and he knows that Waller’s ending the discussion. Her own plan is ruined--Bruce hasn’t turned on Slade like she hoped--and there’s no further point in letting Bruce talk to her.

“Rose,” he says. “Maybe one day.”

A guard escorts him out without an ounce of gentleness. Waller doesn’t meet him at the door, and he’s forcibly removed from the premises without another word from any of them.


	39. Chapter 39

Slade knows something’s wrong from the moment Bruce gets back from Louisiana. He knows, and Bruce can tell he knows. It’s a game of chicken, trying to figure out if Bruce is going to crack and ask his question, or if Slade will ask  _his_  question first.

In the end, Slade’s the one who cracks.

“Bruce,” he says. “We should talk.”

Even if Slade doesn’t consider Rose his daughter, that doesn’t mean he’s not curious as to what set the entire thing off.

Bruce’s office is out--the furniture’s still being replaced from the Talon attack--so they end up settling into the manor’s library at the far end of the house. Alfred and Damian seem to catch that something serious is happening and give them their space.

Titus does not. He leaves Damian’s side for once, circling around Bruce’s feet even as he settles back in the armchair.

“So,” Bruce says. “I saw her. Waller was  _very_  accommodating.”

“Was she replaced? That’s the only way Waller would be accommodating,” Slade says.

Bruce scratches between Titus’s ears, and the dog ends up flopping down, laying on top of Bruce’s feet and trapping him in his seat.

“She’s accommodating when she wants something,” Bruce says. “It just took me a bit to understand what it was.”

He leans back in his seat and prepares himself for it. For the question he doesn’t want to ask.

“Do you know how she was... conceived?”

“I’m assuming you’re not asking how babies are made,” Slade says. “Yes, I know how.”

“Is there any question of who-”

“No,” Slade says. “Is that what this is? You’re wondering how many affairs I had?”

Bruce can’t deny that the thought crossed his mind. Even if the rest of the story was bullshit, that part wasn’t. Slade and Rose’s mother slept together. And with her age... He would still have been married.

“One,” Slade says. “One time. Things were... difficult with Adeline. She said I didn’t give her enough attention. That I preferred missions to life with her. She talked about divorcing me. And out on a mission I...” He waves his hand in the air. He looks genuinely unhappy, and Bruce knows he doesn’t want to be talking about it.

“Made a mistake,” he finally says. “I realized what a stupid thing it was the moment I did it. I finished the mission and went back to Adeline.”

“Did you tell her?” Bruce asks, and Slade scowls.

“Whatever chance we might have had of fixing the marriage died the moment I did. It lasted for years after that, but she never stopped using it as a weapon against me. Every mission ended in an interrogation about who I’d seen and if I’d cheated on her again. Her words before she blew my eye out were  _you were too busy being with some whore to be here for your son_.”

Bruce winces. Even if Slade was in the wrong--even if he did actually do a bad thing--he can’t imagine standing over a grieving father and saying something like that.

Slade looks away, staring out the library window and refusing to meet Bruce’s eyes.

“We should have divorced the moment it happened,” he said. “We wanted to stay together for Joseph. It was a mistake. The second one I made in the span of a week.”

Slade is silent for a while, and Bruce lets himself churn over it. A mistake. A mistake made decades ago.

He can let himself move past it. The Slade of then feels like a completely different person from the Slade who tried to kill him more than a decade ago. He feels like he’s in an entirely different universe than the one in front of him right then.

“Alright,” Bruce says. “I understand. I’m not going to... to bring this up again.”

He wonders if that’s what Slade’s afraid of. That Bruce will hang it over his head like Adeline did.

Slade’s shoulders seem to relax, some of the tension easing out of them.

“So?” He says. “What did she say?”

“She had a whole story,” Bruce says. “About how her mother found an injured American soldiers. About how she hid you from shoulders and nursed you back to death. That you fell in love, and when you left, you promised to come back to her.”

Slade’s head snaps around, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“What?” He asks, sounding outraged.

“You wrote her letters,” Bruce continues. “Dozens of them. Confessing your love. Telling her how soon you’d come back for her. Talking about your life.”

“I didn’t-”

“I know,” Bruce says. “Beyond that you would have regenerated through any injury and the whole story of how she nursed you back to health was bunk, the letters were all wrong. You apparently forgot how to spell your own wife’s name. You said you had a daughter, and lived in California. In  _LA_.”

Slade reaches up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“And she believed it.”

“She thought her mother had told her the truth, yes,” Bruce says. “She thought you abandoned them. That you’d lied to her mother for years, dragging things out rather than coming back for her.”

“I barely knew her,” he says. “I was hired to move her across the border. It took less than two weeks, and most of that was spent in silence. I didn’t...”

Slade shakes his head.

“Why the hell would she do that? Lie to her kid like that?”

“To spare her, I guess,” Bruce says. “There’s no way of knowing why. She died, and Rose-”

“Rose?”

“Her name is Rose Worth,” Bruce says. Slade frowns.

“Rose,” Bruce continues, “decided to seek you out. To find out why you hadn’t come back for her. She found out about Joseph, and then seemed to lose your trail as Slade Wilson. She joined the League to find Deathstroke, and then... well, you know where you met her.”

“The roof,” Slade says.

“She was angry you’d thrown her away to be with a new family. So she decided to destroy it. To hurt you.”

“Christ,” Slade says, reaching up to comb his fingers through his hair. “What the hell was her mother thinking.”

“We’ll probably never know,” Bruce says. “She probably had good intentions. But that doesn’t change that she put her daughter on a path to... to this.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Slade says. “And this path got closer to hell than most.”

Bruce wonders for a moment would have happened if Slade had done what he planned. If he’d killed Rose himself for what she’d done to Jason. Would they have ever learned the truth?

Bruce decides not to think about it.


	40. Chapter 40

Bruce doesn’t know what to expect when a man he doesn’t know shows at the front gate. He says he’s there on  _government business_  and flashes a Homeland Security badge.

Alfred lets him in, but only after making sure everyone in the entire house knows he’s there.

The man’s in his early forties, with blond hair and a stance that screams  _military_  to Bruce. He’s got a manilla folder tucked under his arm, and he’s wearing a suit that looks brand new. Despite the fact that he’s still recovering, Jason insists on being there when Alfred answers the door, right along with everyone else.

If someone’s getting dragged away again, they’re not going to go down easily.

He glances between them, looking increasingly nervous as he realizes that everyone--from Slade to Damian--is staring right at him.

“Hello,” he says, clearing his throat. “I was hoping to ah... to speak to Mr. Wayne.”

“That’s three quarters of it,” Slade says. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He’s being pedantic, because they all know who he’s talking about.

“This way,” Bruce says. “We just got new furniture for my office.”

Literally that morning. In the week since Jason woke up (the  _second_  time, Bruce thinks bitterly) they’ve been busy repairing everything that was damaged.

He settles down behind his new desk, and the man clears his throat, standing at attention.

“I’ve been sent on-”

“Not on behalf of the military,” Bruce says. “Because if you were, you’d be wearing some kind of indicator of your rank.”

The man squirms.

“I’m here on behalf of the Department of Homeland Security,” he says. “I was transferred to help organize a new federal agency.”

Bruce knew something like this was coming. That eventually, someone was going to try and... and what? Drag him kicking and screaming into something he doesn’t want. War, or something like it. He’s less of a target, but people like Clark? The moment the people up top knew there were Americans who could take down entire platoons, they’d have wanted them ready to  _serve the interests of the American people_.

Bruce isn’t going to let that happen.

“Let me guess,” Bruce says. “You want to recruit me to this new agency and make use of my  _talents_.”

The man clears his throat.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot, sir,” he says. “I’m not here to drag you in. I understand you’ve been in contact with Miss Waller, but we plan to do things differently.”

Bruce considers it. He’s not quite throwing Waller under the bus, but it’s a tacit admission of what everyone with a bit of sense knows: Waller’s not quite  _dirty_ , but she’s certainly past the limits of what anyone would consider acceptable.

“Alright,” Bruce says. “Pitch it to me.”

“My name is Steve Trevor, and I’m here on behalf of the Advanced Research Group Uniting Super-Humans.”

ARGUS, Bruce puts together. The giant with a thousand eyes. How fitting. 

“Right now, vigilantes and superhumans have no official legal status. Most of them operate illegally, generally with the understanding that their local government will look the other way as long as they stay in line. It’s the position of ARGUS that this is an untenable position, and one that’s liable to break down before long. It also poses a number of problems. As one of the oldest operating costumed vigilantes in the United States, we wanted to approach you and present an alternative.”

Bruce has to admit he’s good. It’s obvious he’s practiced his speech, but it does come off as genuine. He either really believes what he’s saying, or he’s a much better liar than Bruce assumed.

“Hm,” Bruce says. “If you’re going to pitch this, we should probably move back to the living room.”

Trevor’s thrown off almost immediately, blinking at Bruce before glancing over his shoulder.

“The living room?”

“They’re not all going to fit in my office,” Bruce says. “And if you’re going to pitch this, you’re going to want to do it to everyone. Save you from having to repeat it four times today.”

Trevor blinks some more.

“I’ll be nice and pass on the message to the others who don’t live here.”

“I... am not sure I understand.”

Bruce smiles at him.

“You came here for Batman,” he says. “Not Bruce Wayne. And where I go, they go. You can’t recruit me for anything that isn’t also going to take the others.”

Trevor glances over his shoulder again.

“I... alright,” he finally says. “I can pitch it to everyone.”

Bruce isn’t surprised to find the entire family--including Titus and Alfred--settled into the living room waiting for them. Damian’s got his arms folded over his chest, and Jason’s mirroring his position.

“How stupid is it, Father?” Damian asks.

“He hasn’t pitched it yet,” Bruce says. “But he’s being polite, so we should probably give him a chance.”

Bruce settles in onto the couch, and Trevor looks even  _more_  nervous as six pairs of eyes stare up at him. He clears his throat and gets back to his speech.

“As I was saying,” he says. “Vigilantes currently operate illegally. ARGUS is operating-”

“Argus? Really? Because you’re going to  _watch us_?” Jason asks.

“Master Jason,” Alfred chides. “Let the man say his piece, and  _then_  you can ask questions.”

Jason sulks openly. He already doesn’t like it.

“I think what happened in Gotham serves as a perfect example,” Trevor says. “I think we can all agree that the damage would have been much, much worse without the intervention of Superman and his sidekick.”

Damian lets out a loud snort. Trevor stares at him, waiting for further interruption, and then clears his throat and starts again.

Bruce is almost starting to feel bad for him.

“ARGUS is of the opinion that the best way to resolve these difficulties is for a coalition to be formed. Costumed heroes, superhumans, and things like that. By combining your forces, you’ll be able to reach out for assistance in times of great need. The US Government has become increasingly concerned by the appearance of more and more costumed criminals, whether with powers or otherwise, and have begun to seek out options for what happens when those start to pop up outside of your usual... zones.”

“You mean,” Slade says, “you’re wondering who’s going to clean up the mess if Bane decides that Gotham doesn’t interest him and moves to a place  _without_  someone that can stop him.”

“Exactly,” Trevor says. “While we understand that each of you has a particular place you consider your home territory, we’d hope that in a time of crisis you’d be willing to help each other to minimize the loss of life the way Superman did.”

“Am I the first one you approached?” Bruce asks.

Trevor pauses, then shakes his head.

“No,” Trevor says. “We already have a few people willing to join.”

“Superman?”

Trevor grins nervously.

“We haven’t been able to reach him. He’s been... ah, avoiding us. We were hoping you could reach out and let him know we’d like to speak to him.”

“I can’t imagine why he’d be avoiding you,” Jason mutters.

“I think... I probably haven’t been as clear as I’d like. This coalition isn’t intended to be a group operating under ARGUS.”

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“It’s intended to be an independent entity. ARGUS plans to help coordinate efforts and serve as a liason to the various branches of the government and other related groups-”

“The DEO and Task Force X, you mean,” Slade says.

“Including the DEO,” Trevor confirms. “The US Government does not officially recognize the existence of Task Force X.”

“Of course not,” Slade says. “It’d be awfully inconvenient if someone caught wind of what they’re up to.”

“It would,” Trevor agrees. “I... personally hope that the coalition and ARGUS’s efforts will render the Task Force entirely unnecessary, so that it can be rendered defunct.”

It’s a personal admission of his feelings on things, and Bruce decides that Trevor’s damn good at his job.

“So we’ll be independent,” Bruce says. “With minimal government oversight. But I assume you’ll want our identities.”

“No offense meant, sir,” Trevor says. “But the opposite. We already know your identities. We’re hoping to help you cover them up. We hold the opinion that costumed vigilantes are better accepted by the public when they exist as figureheads, symbols of the common good, than when they’re ordinary people with normal lives and personal failings.”

He pauses, and then gives a small smile.

“As they say,” he says, “never meet your heroes.”

Bruce glances around the room. The reaction isn’t as harsh as he expected it to be. Everyone seems, at the very least, open to the idea. Even Jason, who he expected to rail against it the hardest.

“We’ll consider the idea,” Bruce says. “And discuss among ourselves. I want to know who we would be working with.”

“Of course,” Trevor says, pulling the folder from under his arm and holding it out. “Please understand that the files are considered top secret. They should not be shared with anyone outside this room...” His eyes wander over to Damian. “...For any reason.”

Bruce makes a little  _mmm_ , already flipping through the pages.

“Do you have a name?” Alfred asks politely.

Steve Trevor, who has thus far maintained his dignity, blushes.

“Well,” he says. “We’re still discussing it.”

“You’re bright red,” Slade says. “Which means  _yes_ , but you think it’s silly.”

“Well, no,” he says. “It was proposed by our primary founding member. She’s a... she’s a hell of a woman. A bit... theatrical, I think?”

“Alright,” Slade says. “Hit me. I’m ready for this. What name does she want to give it?”

It takes Trevor a moment to pull himself together, clearing his throat again, obviously just to buy himself time.

“We were thinking about calling it the Justice League.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who read along. This one doesn't have as much of an epilogue because there's no big timeskip. That said, this was originally planned as a 'trilogy', and part four has a pretty different tone. We're getting into... _romance_. A lot of people have pointed out that Slade and Bruce are effectively married, and I'm down for that pining, angst, and 'wait you guys aren't in a relationship?' humor.


End file.
